


Dance to the Second Dusk - FFXIV Write 2020

by stars_bleed_hearts_shine



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, 5.3 spoilers, Character Study, Combat Violence, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Foreplay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild Gore, Multi, Multiple Warriors of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Polyamory, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), but like it's character study through flashbacks and angst and romance and all the fun things, explicit chapters are marked, linkpearl sex, mild violence, shameless use of in-game dialogue, socially distanced aether sex, tags/characters will be added along with entries!, vague spoilers for 5.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 53,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26266084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_bleed_hearts_shine/pseuds/stars_bleed_hearts_shine
Summary: Ffxivwrites2020 writing prompts! Each chapter will be the prompt for the day, in order, added as we go! Tags will be updated with each chapter! I hope you enjoy!
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood
Comments: 46
Kudos: 47





	1. Crux

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp, this one sort of sprinted away from me, but it was a great warm-up! Have some backstory on how people grow together, and how sometimes despite how vulnerable it leaves us, that it's okay.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A character exploration through the lens of relationships, with some angst, but mostly fluff. Implied Aymeric/Estinien/Haurchefant, some Aymeric/WoL at the end \o/

“I beg your pardon,” Aymeric spoke up in the tense quiet of the sitting room. “But I believe this courtship disservices us both.”

His paramour— _former_ paramour, he amended with some bittersweet relief— sighed as if in defeat (but not _surprise,_ and Aymeric noted that acutely,) and set his teacup primly on its saucer.

“May I ask why? I had thought our arrangement had been going rather well.” 

It certainly had been, for a time. Then, as is inevitable with such intimate relations, the true nature of his partner emerged through sheer exposure to him. Aymeric could not reconcile the man he had adored with the man he now knew him to be.

“In coming to know you, I fear our differences are irreconcilable. Further pursuit on either of our parts feels dishonest.”

“This is about the marriage comment, isn’t it?” The noble asked, tone edging on something less than polite. 

A tone Aymeric had gotten uncomfortably familiar with suddenly and recently, when topics of lowborns or bastards came up. Always with the hastily tacked on, _“Oh, but I don’t mean_ you _, handsome!”_ It had guaranteed that he would never even _want_ to entertain the notion of marriage, which in turn had rendered a courtship between them utterly pointless.

“I meant it. I would marry you! You’ve done well for yourself, given your...circumstances. We could still have—”

“No. We cannot.” Aymeric sharply cut him off. “It would require mutual interest. I assure you in the wake of your infidelity and disrespect, it no longer exists, but I thank you for your time.”

“My, my. How _impersonal.”_ The noble stood and brushed nonexistent dust from his coat. The spiteful contempt on his face was evident. “This is likely for the best. I couldn’t even expect a warm bed with you, you’re such an unfeeling cu—”

“If you are finished, my attendant will show you out.” Aymeric ignored his comment, and calmly returned to his tea to hide the sting of the insult.

After a few moments made more tense by the sound of silence pierced only with angry, labored breathing of his ex-lover and the faint clinking of Aymeric setting his own teacup on its saucer, the hard, rapid thumping of the nobleman’s shoes against carpet punctuated Aymeric’s loneliness, and capped it off entirely with the slam of the heavy oak door.

“Remind me why you put up with him so long, again?” Estinien groused into his ale later that evening, once the knights on the midday shift had made for the Forgotten Knight the moment muster was over. 

Aymeric lacked an answer that would satisfy either of them, and avoided replying by way of a heavy pull from his own flagon. Estinien leaned back heavily enough that his chainmail rattled against the back of the chair when he connected with it, a huff escaping him when he realized an answer was not forthcoming.

“I’m still going to break his fucking legs.” The lancer groused.

“Now, now, much as he is undeserving of his kneecaps, assault would only make more trouble for our friend!” Haurchefant piped up as he flagged a waitress down to order another round.

Though it more or less quieted the griping of their friend, it didn’t entirely silence the grumbling. Aymeric was unsure of whether to feel touched or concerned for how much they— Estinien in particular— cared. Still, flanked by his friends at the table as he was, it helped to feel less alone, and eased the heartache, if only a bit.

“Regardless of your penchant for violence against those who seek to use me,” Aymeric sighed and set his flagon down. “It means much that I am yet in good company.”

“That _does_ bring up your unfortunate track record, my friend.” Haurchefant mused, and just this once, his expression was serious, _troubled_. “Though your courtships have been few...they have not particularly ended well, have they?”

“ _That_ is putting it mildly.” Estinien snorted. 

“Oh, _must_ we?” Aymeric groaned, and swiped a hand down his face. When Estinien opened his mouth to reply, he instead continued, “I am aware that my relationships have hitherto ended...poorly. Spectacularly so. And I have been subjected to mistreatment in each-” he ran a hand through his bangs. “-I ended them all the moment I realized I was being used, being hurt. I know what it is to be loved, and I know what courtesy and respect I deserve, as a person.”

“Really, that’s the best anyone can do. Pray do not take our concerns as criticism of you—” Haurchefant tried to reassure him.

“Speak for yourself.” Estinien muttered into his ale. _"I_ think him a fool."

Haurchefant kicked Estinien’s shin under the table hard enough to make the lancer choke on his drink. As he dissolved into a coughing fit, Haurchefant continued as though he had never been interrupted, _“We_ aren’t here to criticize, and most certainly _should not do so_. We only worry because we care. This is most assuredly naught more than a string of bad luck—”

“I would take it as a providential warning at this point.” Aymeric muttered into his ale before he drained his flagon and set it aside. 

After thanking the waitress for bringing them another round and tipping her for the trouble, he spoke up again, hesitant. “I think...I should just stop looking. Focus on the good things and the good people I already have in my life. For mine own sake.”

Haurchefant looked aghast at the suggestion— for how could he play matchmaker anymore if _that_ was the way of it— but when he opened his mouth to interject, Estinien returned that kick to the shin with a hard heel to the ankle. 

Ignoring Haurchefant’s yowling, and the jostling of the table by his jolting in his seat, Estinien picked up his flagon and replied, “If that’s what it takes for you to not get hurt, then do so. Halone knows the both of you—” he gestured at Aymeric and Haurchefant with the hand still holding his ale, “—have little but your looks going for you.”

“Arse.” Aymeric and Haurchefant groused in unison.

“I mean it— the only thing Ishgard cares less about than the poor are the bastards. Anything you have that others would kill for? It makes you the exception to the rule. It makes you a _target.”_ Estinien pressed, his expression serious. “So do what you must to be safe.”

A heavy weight hung over them, oppressive enough they all curled into their cups a little, falling quiet. Aymeric knew that his friend was right— _knew_ that loneliness was preferable to being made to feel _alone_ , and even before that silence was shattered, had already begun to lay the groundwork for those walls he would need to raise around his heart.

“You are right, and the contradiction between Ishgardian politics and my upbringing is the crux of the issue, I suppose.” He finally admitted softly. When Haurchefant sprang up to try and insist differently, he continued, “I know what it is to be loved, and what love and respect I would deserve from and to give my partner. I know that I deserve that, as a person, and I will settle for naught less. If that condemns me to be alone, then so be it.”

“Aymeric, my friend…” Haurchefant sounded sad, but could tell he knew not how to change his friend’s mind. 

Very likely, he could not.

“You need not worry for me.” Aymeric reassured, and for the first time in what felt like years, his smile felt genuine. “‘Tis as I said: I have known love from my parents— Halone rest their souls— and I—”

He hesitated a moment, and lowered his suddenly timid gaze to the frothy head of his ale. Thinking on the comfort that these two men had offered him, had continued to offer him and help support him with, even if he understood that neither of them _romantically_ loved him— or at least, if they did, not deep enough to make it a courtship— he scrounged up enough bravery to admit to his own observations.

“And I continue to know love with the both of you. So ‘tis not all bad. I do not need a courtship to know happiness.”

“...We aren’t here to use you and toss you aside.” Estinien said suddenly, voice uncharacteristically soft. When Aymeric looked up at him, it was _Estinien’s_ turn to stare into his half drank flagon of ale. “Neither of us can offer you that, but...but what we _have_ offered, we’ve done it because we _want_ to.”

“Because we _do_ love you.” Haurchefant said with a nod. 

Estinien said nothing— though his lack of correction was noted, and what mattered.

“If tonight has proven anything, I hope it has proven that if I thought otherwise, I would not be here with you.” Aymeric reassured, and resumed drinking.

Though they did not speak of it again, their mood lifted significantly after that.

The trio, true to their words, had continued to give that warmth and comfort in what ways they could, in what capacity they had, though as their careers pulled them ever further apart, it became easier to forget what that sort of love looked like, until Aymeric couldn’t recall the last time they had been able to make the time for any of it at all. Not for years. Duty and schedules and stations had pulled them apart physically, though letters helped to bridge that distance. Aymeric had learned to make that enough. It _was_ enough. He was happy.

Which was why, once the Warrior of Light had been welcomed as a friend to the three of them, he had thought nothing of stopping to speak with her following a chance encounter in the Pillars. That Haurchefant and Estinien had hung a few paces did not strike Aymeric as odd. As a flower blooms after a dark night, Aymeric bent toward her radiance.

“I’m so glad I ran into you!” Serella said brightly, and produced a book. “Here— I’m on my way out of the city, but I found it!”

“Found—?” Aymeric had a book suddenly pressed against his chest with a light _thmp_ before he could ask.

Taking the book from her, and forcing himself to tear his gaze from the bright, excited smile she gave him, he glanced down at the book in his hands. When he realized it was the book he’d been meaning to pick up but could not track down a copy of, he gasped in shocked joy.

“How on earth did you manage to find one in the city?” He asked excitedly, already looking back up at her with what he hoped was a socially acceptable level of happiness.

“Oh, I didn’t. Gridania had a copy, though, in one of their bookstores.” She shrugged. “I was there on business, but when I saw it, I thought of you. Wanted to make sure you got to read it.”

“Why? I recall you misliked this series.” Aymeric lamented, even though his elation. 

“Sure, but I remembered how much _you_ liked it.” She explained like it was obvious why she would go out of her way.

“What do I owe you?” He asked suddenly. At the confused expression and tilt of her head, he elaborated, “For the book? What do I owe you?”

Once she realized he was serious, she gave him a wince of a smile. Aymeric couldn’t help but wonder why there was a strange sort of sympathy in that smile.

“Enjoy it, and we’ll be square.” Serella reassured him.

“But what if he does not?” Haurchefant asked, all dramaticism and sweeping, gesticulating arms that managed to arrange themselves with a hand on his hip and an arm slung over her shoulder. “How ever shall he repay you?”

“Well, he needn’t at all. It misses the point of a gift!” She laughed brightly. “But if it would ease the Lord Commander’s guilt…” 

When she looked back at Aymeric, he swore his heart skipped at the playful twinkle found within her eyes. Had Haurchefant also been looking at her with what he could generously describe as a, “scheming bastard’s grin,” he might have forgotten what was being discussed at all in favor of watching her.

“A cup of tea had in good company will do.” Serella finished her answer, and her smile widened ever so slightly.

It felt suddenly and unseasonably warm in the courtyard.

The spell was broken and he felt cold again at Hyana’s call from the foot of the stairs leading down to Foundation, as it tore her gaze from him. 

“Alright,” she called back, and threw the three of them another wincing, apologetic smile. “Forgive me, but duty calls.”

“As ever.” Estinien snorted. “Need you assistance?”

“We shouldn’t, thankfully, though rest assured I will contact you if that changes.”

Estinien gave a grunt and nodded, satisfied. 

She looked at Aymeric one last time, as if she wanted to say something else, but then her gaze darted between the three men, she nodded once, and with a simple, “Be well,” she was off down the stairs again.

Aymeric looked down at the book in his hands, and opened it to the first page— nearly letting the pressed lily there flutter away in the breeze for how unexpected it was. He managed to pin it down: a pale blue center with white petals— _Halone’s Grace_. A flower of immense sentiment to him. She remembered he’d mentioned that, too.

“I have yet to read it,” He called out before he could stop himself. When he turned to face her again, she had paused on the steps, pivoted to face him. “But if assures your return, I regret to inform you ‘tis awful.”

After the momentary shock morphed into another of those dazzling smiles of hers, she called back, “A cup of tea in good company, then, upon my return!”

It had not registered that he had been grinning, ears perked up, as he watched her go until he realized Haurchefant was watching him. He averted his eyes from both Estinien and the damnably observant knight. He cleared his throat behind his hand ears pinned back in humiliation.

“Well, well.” Estinien was the first to speak. “She seems…”

“Shut—”

 _“Nice."_ Haurchefant finished the sentence for him, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Aymeric hoped the flush that pooled to the tips of his ears would be attributed to the spiteful glare he threw at his friends and _not_ the way his heart fluttered in his chest. Hoped, but was ultimately a realist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy ffxivwrite2020 everyone! Let's all do our best! \o/


	2. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the day that Dalamud fell, Serella Arcbane, like so many on that day, perished in the ensuing Calamity.
> 
> And then she got back up again.

Dalamud was falling.

The skies turned red. Creeks once flowing and brooks once babbling had turned ruddy, darkened by soot and blood. Even lacking a breeze, the Twelveswood seemed to sway even in the stillness as the world held its breath.

Gridania seemed to exist in constant contradiction in the days of darkness. Stillness and constant motion. The forest teemed with life, but the air was heavy with the scent of death. Few dared to leave the city-state for the Twelveswood out of fear of the voidesent that flooded it.

Dalamud was falling, and time was at a standstill.

Serella thought on her brother, gone to Limsa Lominsa years ago now, and prayed that he kept his head about him. She had no faith in the Twelve, but she begged them to keep him out of Carteneau. Her prayers contradicted the truth she knew, in her heart of hearts: he was a warrior down to his marrow. He was a _helper_. Provided he was as hale and healthy as his last letter had indicated, though he did not say so, she knew as surely as she knew the moon was falling, that he was on the battlefield.

Dalamud was falling, and her brother was at war.

A part of her hated that she wasn’t there. But there was no sense in her going, not when there were people here that needed help. Not for the first time, she had to remind herself that though she had learned much in her years under the tribe’s tutelage, she was hardly a soldier. The bow at her back wasn’t going to do much on the front lines. So she focused on what she could do here and now. Supply lines needed escorts, people needed tending, errands and messages needed to be ran. She did what she could of the thankless work, because she knew it was what kept the heroes going.

Dalamud was falling, and she was not enough.

Then the battle at Carteneau escalated. Fires began to spread throughout the forests. Already largely trapped in the city-state proper as so many were, it felt as though they were cornered animals watching their hunter close in. People cracked under the pressure, began to panic, began to try and flee into the flames.

Dalamud was falling, and the Twelveswood burned.

Serella, and many other adventurers, did what they could to ferry water— she and her own chocobo hauled much of it toward the brushes, wetting them against the flames and trying to douse what embers she could. It was not enough. It was not enough. The wood burned all the same.

What Adders remained in the city were clearly not made for risk taking. Those civilians that ran into the forests were largely left to die. Voidsent were only barely held back by the adventurers that were skilled enough to slay them. It was not enough.

“Please! My son!” Serella heard a woman cry. 

Scrubbing soot from her eyes, she turned to see the wailing Elezen, clinging to the arm of a Serpent lancer who seemed desperate to shake her off.

“I _told_ you—” He tried to growl.

“He’s just a little boy, he’s _scared!_ Please, you have to save him!” She begged. 

"I'm sorry, but he is lost to the wood."

Serella watched. And listened. This wasn’t the first person to beg for help from the Adders, was not the _only_ one begging now. _Help us, help our families. We’re scared. Help us,_ they begged of their protectors. 

What a fitting name, the Adders, she thought bitterly, and spat into the dirt. _Snakes_ , the lot of them.

Dalamud was falling, and Gridiania did not care.

But _Serella_ did. And she had water. And a cloth to douse and cover her mouth. And a bird swift enough to make it in and out.

She was moving toward the weeping mother before she had even made a conscious thought to act. Every muscle in her body pulled taught, a low roiling anger burned within her, but she had never been one to let herself be idle in her rage. Not when she could put it to good use. She could, so she _must_.

“Quickly, miss.” She called to her, and scrounged up every bit of softness she could manage to usher her to a nearby bench. “Your son. Tell me his name, what he was wearing, and which way he went.”

“T-Tam!” The woman replied, and when she began to sway from the stress, Serella helped her sit down. “He was wearing a yellow shirt, brown pants. He fled south from here, r-right through those trees!”

“My thanks.” Serella nodded to her. “I will try to find him.”

She had to be quick. With some of the water she had gathered, she soaked a bandana for herself and her trusty bird, and hastily tied them around face and beak alike.

“Vesh, let’s be swift, yeah?” She patted the bird’s neck.

Vesh trilled and bumped her forehead against Serella’s in answer.

She mounted her bird and took off into the burning brush before any of the Adders could even attempt to stop her. Ducked low against her galloping companion, eyes squinted against the smoke, she scanned the trees for any signs of anyone— she knew there were many that had run to try and get away. When she was deep enough in that she couldn’t make out where the city was, she pulled on Vesh’s reigns to make her stop.

“Anyone out there?” Serella called at the top of her lungs. “Tam? Anyone?”

A scream echoed to her right. She spurred Vesh to chase the sound. It took little time to find a young woman running from a voidsent, swaying and stumbling as she maneuvered around the charred forest remains.. 

“To me!” Serella shouted, and drew her bow.

She had seen many of these particular type of voidsent in recent days— wraiths with leathery wings, ashen scales, and fearsome claws. They looked more akin to gargoyles than living things. It shrieked, jaw distended as it bore its fangs, hungry for the woman’s aether.

The arrow she fired connected with the voidsent’s chest as the woman staggered toward her. It shrieked again, in agony this time, and dissipated before it could fall to the ground. 

“I’ve got you!” She reassured the woman, hauling her up onto Vesh’s saddle in front of her.

Retracing the path they had tore through the burning brush, Serella dropped the woman off at the safest edge of the wood, in clear view of the city. Once she saw her stagger toward the awaiting Adder, Serella wetted their cloth masks and was off into the fire again.

She felt a strange calm amongst the flames, the chaos. It wasn’t the soft, warm days full of birdsong, the kind where villages could be eradicated, and the birds would still sing through the destruction. This was some strange equal opposite to her trauma. She had never felt more aware of herself and her surroundings than she did in that moment.

Maybe that was the real reason why she kept going back in. Back and forth, back and forth, she would ferry what people she could find. Still, there was no sign of a little boy in yellow and brown.

Dalamud was falling, and Serella was on the move.

On the fifth run in, just when she thought she had run out of people she hadn’t failed, she was proven wrong.

“Help!” Cried the voice of a man. 

She followed his call, shouting at him to keep calling out to her, until she found a small group of people: three of them, two children, and a man, huddled together. One of the young ones— a boy in yellow and brown— stared at her in horror as she dismounted. 

“It’s alright, I’m here to get you out!” She reassured them. “Tam, is that you? Your mother sent me. Let’s go home, yeah?”

“B-but…” Tam wheezed, and when he stepped aside, she saw a chocobo egg almost as big as the boy who had shielded it. “We can’t leave it behind—” 

His words tapered weakly on a cough. The others were faring no better, and it was clear they wouldn’t last long breathing in this smoke. She tore bits of her own shirt off, wet them, and passed them around. 

“Here, cover your mouths, come now, that’s it!”

“There are others!” The man cried, even as she helped him atop Vesh’s saddle. “I...I tried to find them—!”

The man dissolved into coughing fits.

“You tried, and that’s what matters. I promise you, I’ll look for them.” She reassured him. “Come, we have to get out of here.” 

She scooped the little girl up with one arm, once she realized the poor little ones could only sway in shock and horror, and handed her to the man to situate on the saddle. Hastily, she plucked little Tam up in one arm and cradled the chocobo egg in the other, and once Tam was situated behind the little girl— Bev, she had croaked her name out— she slipped the chocobo egg in the soft, fur lined saddlebag for safekeeping.

Serella had intended to lead Vesh away on foot, back to Gridania, but they must have tarried too long. What glowing light there was from the fire became eclipsed in creeping shadows made solid, manifesting around them. Vesh tossed her head, startled, even as Serella’s grip on her reigns tightened. 

Dalamud was falling, and the voidsent hungered.

These were greater numbers than ever before. More than she knew she could handle. More than she knew Vesh could outrun, burdened as she was even without Serella. She would have to stay behind to buy them time, even knowing what it would cost her.

She didn’t even need to think on it. Fortunate, then, that she had no time to.

“Get them out of here!” She ordered the man still astride her bird. “I’ll cover your escape!”

Vesh tossed her head again, letting out a _wark_ of despair.

“Hush now, Vesh. It’s alright. Go on. Keep them safe for me.” She patted her bird’s face affectionately before she hardened herself for what she knew was coming. “Go on now, go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice. As Vesh thundered off, wailing out a mournful cry of farewell as she went, Serella turned to the rapidly solidifying darkness. The swarm of voidsent. They clustered so closely she couldn’t discern their shapes, so she instead counted the eyes. Ten sets of them. More of them than anything she had ever fought. 

Dalamud was falling, and so, too, would she.

There was a strange calm to knowing death was approaching— but Serella refused to revel in it. Honing her focus, she quickly nocked an arrow and fired into the collective shadow.

Two eyes vanished. Nine voidsent left. The swarm descended. 

She fired a second arrow, nearly dancing to the rhythm of her hammering heart. Though her lungs burned and her eyes stung, she persisted. 

Two more eyes vanished. Eight left. They grew near enough to nearly grab her, but she leapt back to keep the distance and fired a third arrow as she landed on her feet again.

Seven left, but the flames were closing in. She was out of room to move. 

Her bow would do little here, with them coming so close. She glanced down when a glint caught the corner of her eye— a fallen Adder she had not seen before, with his blade stuck in the ground beside him. 

She had only ever seen the Wood Wailers train with them from afar. Though she would die flailing, at least she could buy them more time.

The blade's hilt was slick with blood, but she redoubled her grip and swung it upward as she ripped it from the earth. When the edge of the sword connected with the first voidsent, she nearly dropped her blade at the unexpected resistance she met: she had thought them less solid. Nevertheless, she had to rip the blade through and complete the arc. She caught two of them in her path. Five remaining.

One of them sunk it's scythe appendage into her arm, and she cried out at the stinging pain as it dug into her bicep.

At least it was her off hand, she mused darkly, and stabbed its black heart.

The motion left her vulnerable for another attack, however, and with another lunge, one of the remaining monstrosities slashed across her back. Shallow enough to keep her standing but deep enough to make her bleed. A cry of agony tore from her throat as she slashed wildly outward, and caught a two more in the stroke.

The last two voidsent, however, had her pinned. Diving in from either side, they swooped, graceful as black swans, and dug a bladed arm each into her chest. The impact stole the breath from her lungs, and she shuddered with the want to breathe. Even as her chest felt sticky and wet, she did not dare look down, knowing of the blood she would see.

Her mind and body hadn't quite caught up with what just happened, and with another swing of her limp arm to line up the beasts, and a strike with her blade, she'd managed fell them both with the last of her strength.

Her legs stopped working, and she sank to her knees in the blood soaked earth. As she lurched forward and managed to catch herself, just barely, by digging the blade into the earth and leaning on it, she wondered in dark humor whether or not this was how the blade's last bearer had died.

It didn't matter. Vesh got away with the civilians. That was enough. She made that enough.

Dalamud fell, and so, too, did she.

When the scent of smoke and brimstone filled her nose, Serella had, at first, presumed she'd been condemned to one of the seven hells. Opening her eyes and taking in the smoke filled skies, the brittle, burned trees, and the near foot of ash that coated everything, she wasn't entirely sure she was wrong in that assumption.

Then she looked down. She lay centered in a perfect circle of preserved grass, unburned, untarnished, and verdant beneath the ashes. Peering down at herself, she lacked wounds to speak of the horror she endured, and yet, the blood still stained her clothes deeply. The tears, the holes, every other marker of her injuries remained on everything but her. 

She lifted her weary eyes, staring at the blade that had served her in the bitter end, still embedded in the grass. Her senses slowly returned to her, and she could hear the faint crooning of crows off in the distance, but little else. Her father's bow and pack slung on her shoulders were a familiar weight, and she drew comfort in that.

Her hand was enclosed around something, she realized. Confused, she looked at it and turned her palm up.

A bright, glowing blue crystal. Deep as the fathomless sea, bright as the surface of the ocean at midday, it was cool against her fingertips, and almost impossibly smooth. Every gleaming facet seemed to hold reflections of a face she almost thought she recognized, though they were all a little different from the others.

 _This is me._ Some part of her whispered, and her mind lurched at the implication.

 _Hear...feel...think…_ a soft voice cooed from somewhere within her.

Serella decided she had done enough of all of those things for the moment. She had important things she had to do, if hell was too scared to take her now. She had to try and find Vesh, first. Gods willing, she could then take Vesh to track down her tribe again— Mina had taken them north, closer to Coerthas. She knew the path well. She _had_ to know if they made it through this hellish nightmare, and if there was anyone that she could turn to with this weird...crystal, and this strange, intrusive voice in her head, it was Mina. 

After that, come what may...she needed proper training. She had to learn how to properly protect people. The Adders weren't going to do it, and she wasn't about to hold her breath and expect anywhere else to really look out for their people, either. Someone had to be their shield.

 _Oh, huh. A shield would have been handy back there,_ she thought in a daze, brushing the ashes off of her clothes as she hauled herself up in a fit of sneezing and coughing. _Something to look into. That's step four-or-so._

Dalamud had fallen, and in its ashes, Serella stood tall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an exploration into how I perceive the Calamity to have gone down for my Warrior of Light specifically. Though Vesh is not the chocobo that she has during 2.0 and onward, rest assured: she's okay, she's just retired and living her best life. \o/


	3. Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vague spoilers for 5.0, but nothing outright explicit. Takes place during 5.0, probably sometime after the Greatwood. Enjoy!

“I have it on questionable authority that you’re something of an exception when it comes to your aether sensitivity,” Emet-Selch drawled as he sauntered into the Warrior of Light’s personal space.

“This is leading up to a dig at how inferior we are as a species, I can feel it.” Serella mused dryly, not looking up from her book.

“Just this once, most likely not. I am not above admitting to my curiosity.”

Though he moved no closer than to stand next to her, leaned against a tree as she was, it was still close enough to mark the way her eyes darkened when they shifted to meet his gaze. Was that irritation in her expression, in that downturn of those scarred lips of hers? At least the feeling was mutual. Her very existence agitated him. Turnabout was fair play, as far as he was concerned, though he managed to muster some semblance of civility.

“What is it you want to know?” She asked after heaving a sigh and tucking her book away in her pack. “You’ve answered my questions. Only fair I answer yours.”

“Is it true that you perceive a person’s aether as a feeling, rather than a color?” He asked, intrigued at the notion.

Even an enemy might have valuable field research data, after all. Architect as he was, it seemed only fitting he collected this information in favor of weighing its merit in their restored world, once Lord Zodiark’s noble work was completed.

“I can.” Serella confirmed. “In fact, I have no choice in the matter.” 

“Consider my interest piqued. And what does _my_ aether feel like to you, my dear?”

He didn’t necessarily _have_ to suggestively arch his brow and purr his words at her, but then, it wouldn’t annoy her nearly half as much if he didn’t, and where would the fun in that be? It was all to bother her, and not at all because he was attempting to hide his own discomfort at being so close to a half facsimile of his old friend.

Not at all.

Whatever justifications he might have been thinking on faded when he watched her expression shift. Her typical reaction to him ranged from amicable ambivalence to thinly veiled hostility, though it had never, not once, shifted to _discomfort_. And yet, that was the only word that came to mind to describe the pinch in her brow, the stiffness in her shoulders as she crossed her arms in front of herself.

“You wouldn't like my answer," she finally replied, her voice soft.

It was Emet-Selch’s turn to feel uneasy at the tone she had taken with him: though he was incapable of fully trusting any one of these vain reflections of his lost loved ones, he could easily tell that she did not speak in malice or spite. On the contrary, it seemed as though she had to muster the want to say the words at all, not wanting to hurt him. Being _considerate_. Something about that angered him. He did not dare examine why.

“I would mislike your silence more.” He replied, drawing on his full height despite the way his spine popped in several places in order for him to do so. “I would know. What do I feel like to you?”

The Warrior of Light studied him for a long moment, mismatched eyes piercing through him in a way that might have made him shrink in another life. But she was not whole, she was not who she was meant to be, and so her gaze did little but make his discomfort all the more pronounced. When it became clear that he was not going to back down, she sighed, shoulders slumping. Her eyes danced away, then closed altogether. She was examining how he felt, he realized, and waited for her to reply.

"You feel like standing in a dilapidated chapel at sunset. Empty and somber and quiet." Serella spoke up after another moment of contemplation.

“How grandiose.” He drawled in a voice dripping with sarcasm.

He felt _relieved._ Of course she only felt the most superficial— 

Unfortunately, she continued.

"Like the old bones of you remember what it means to be worshiped and loved, but you can't remember the last time you felt it. You feel dark and lonely, and almost aware of it."

The wry haughtiness he had used as a mask faded as she pressed on, and it was at that point he was fairly certain that she was _intentionally_ needling at a spot she suspected was sore. And all because he’d pushed the point— and perhaps made casual mention of assassination attempts on certain persons close to her. What a petty little creature she was.

 _Still_ , the insect persisted.

"You're someone's abandoned sanctuary, Emet-Selch, and it haunts you."

_“You—!”_

His hand connected with the base of the tree before he had even realized he had moved. His palm, flat against the bark as it was, stung from the impact. His chest heaved from the strain of keeping this flimsy alliance intact, and not at all from the ache of how right this insignificant little worm might have been. Because she _wasn’t_ . Energy dark and ancient writhed within this weak vessel, itching, clawing to break free and steal the life from those _infuriating_ eyes—

For a moment, only one, they looked as they should, a kaleidoscope of colors staring calmly at him, measuring him, making a fool of him— 

A trick of the light, it must have been. At the feeling of a pinprick against his abdomen, he glanced down, and spat a curse that she had managed to get a blade between them before he had noticed. _Again_. For a blessing, when he looked up again, what little reflection he might have seen of his old friend was not there. Or if it was, he did not see it. It was preferable this way regardless.

“You know _nothing_ of me or my supposed heartbreak, _hero.”_ Emet-Selch spat, his voice dropping into a rumbling snarl.

When he pushed off of the tree and pulled at his coat lapels primly to compose himself, Serella sheathed her dagger with all the ease of someone dusting off their clothes.

“Rest assured that if your heart can be broken, then so can mine.” Serella quoted him in a quiet but pointed voice, and returned to her book as though nothing had happened at all.The _nerve_ of her. He didn’t deign to respond as he faded into the shadows in search of somewhere to sulk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about 5.0 and most of them are me screaming in frustration, and not even the fun romantically charged kind, but I think the characters are absolutely incredible, and it's delightful to really take a look at them and see how they might interact with a specific Warrior of Light, with their own sort of agency and voice that the game can't really give them. I hope this conveys that fascination!


	4. Clinch - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes when your relationship is largely long distance, the best course of action is to simply engage in a bit of socially distanced aether sex.
> 
> I can't stress this enough: this is just pure, unadulterated smut completely bereft of plot, with gratuitous use of Dark Knight theming and quest dialogue, because I am nothing if not an unrepentant heretic.

By the time a surprise call to his personal linkpearl, Aymeric could admit he was in need of a break from the myriad reports yet piled on his desk. Though his hand cramped fiercely, he forced it to work long enough to answer.

_“Dear one.”_ His ears perked when he heard his beloved’s softly sleepy voice sigh through the static.

“Ella.” Aymeric sank into his seat with a smile, already far less tense than he had been. “I had wondered when we could next speak. I pray you have been well.”

_“Well enough, if terribly homesick.”_ Serella replied. _“Have you been eating? Getting enough sleep?”_

Her questions made his exhaustion more tangible; he had been attempting for the last several bells to stave off sleep and hunger both with an abundance of coffee and stubbornness. Reminded of the hour, his eyes burned with the want to slip shut.

“Inconsistently, though such is the way of it,” Aymeric answered honestly around a yawn.

_“Don’t stay awake on my behalf. Please— did you work from home today?”_ At his assenting hum, she sighed. _“Small miracles. I know you well enough to know you’ve been in the study all day. Go upstairs, dear one, and lie down.”_

He spared an agonized glance over at the final stack of reports yet to be sorted through. Much as he was more than ready— more than _needing_ to lie down and rest, the end was close. When tired, faintly trembling fingers couldn’t even properly grip the paper for how blurred his depth perception had become, he knew it was high time and then some to admit defeat.

“I will— though promise you will keep talking?” He asked, and though he felt a might petulant for it, he could not help his need to hear her voice purring so soothingly in his ear. “I have missed you.”

_“And I you, dear one. So very, very much.”_

The room began to sway when he stood, inspiring a frown to mar his brow. He had to take a moment to balance his weight appropriately on his feet before leaving the study.

“Truly?” His question caught around a tangle of emotion in his throat, on his surprise at the open longing in her tone.

_“Enough that writing a letter wouldn’t do tonight. I needed to hear you.”_

Aymeric took the few moments ascending the stairs in quiet contemplation. That they were well established in their relationship and affection mattered little; there were still moments such as this that caught him off guard with just how _loved_ he felt. Loved, and cherished, and _wanted_ , aye, and horribly, unbearably lonely in that moment; as he stepped into their bedroom and let the door close heavily behind him, he eyed the vast, empty bed and felt her absence keenly. Hers, Estinien’s both. Even the act of shedding his clothing and crawling beneath the downy soft duvet did little to make it feel warmer, nor adequately occupied.

“Would that you were here.” He sighed before he realized he had even spoken at all.

_“I will be.”_ Serella promised him. 

In a moon’s time, he recalled somberly, and had to bite back the reminder. It was more like than not that she was counting down the hours as much as the rest of them were. He heard her shift— where was she, and what was she doing, he wondered.

_“But...if you can forgive my impatience, and you’re of like mind, I would feel you tonight.”_

Such a sweet offer, open and honest in its yearning ache, welcome in the cold bed as a balm on his chilled skin. It was enough to make his breath hitch in his throat. Despite the exhaustion, despite the weariness and the burning in his eyes, this was kindling on a low roiling flame that he could not douse on his own, embers kicking to life in a roar of blood in his ears.

“Find me in the dark, my dear.” Aymeric all but begged.

A plea, a chant, a _prayer_ murmured in the quiet shadows. Laid bare beneath the covers, he offered himself to their church in the dark, unfurled himself to receive her blessing. _Communion,_ where distance that could not be unmade was instead ignored entirely.

Starved for her, near vibrating with anticipation as he was, he scarcely breathed as he waited, open and pliant and _wanting._ Wanting this, wanting _her,_ wanting something to ground him and remind him that she was alright. Few though the times they had done this were, he was as familiar with her as his own heartbeat, even before he had tasted her aether. He waited for her to descend upon him, trembling but unafraid.

Aymeric gasped at the first soft brushes of her aether against his hand. He could not see her, he never could when they did this, even once she bridged the distance between them, but he felt the way her aether shaped itself in her image, to lace with his fingers, to hold his hand. With practiced breathing and a conscious effort to empty his mind, he could practically feel her clinch the tethers of her soul to his. He exhaled heavily around a smile, sinking into the dark. Into _her._

_“Ah, there you are.”_ Serella said, words wrapped around a sigh of relief.

Fingers unseen lightly traced the angles of his face— he could not count them, and he did not want to. He could feel her; the details mattered little. The trails they blazed on his skin tingled with the want of more, even as the touch itself bordered on almost too much. Already overwhelmed, he pressed his cheek into the pillow that yet had her scent to help him find some part of her here.

“You found me— _ah!_ Rather quickly,” He rasped, chest heaving. 

_“Of course I did. I would know you anywhere.”_

Her voice was calm and quiet. It slid over him like crushed velvet over silk sheets. With his eyes closed and her unseen hands drifting through his hair, he could almost swear the static of the linkpearl faded away. For a moment, he let himself believe she was home, here, with him. The hand she had reached out to hold was released in favor of tracing down the lines of his neck, along the path of his collarbone. He shuddered bodily against the fissure of contentment it shot through him.

“Would that I could reach you in kind.” He lamented softly, his maudlin thoughts offering a brief, lucid moment amid the floating feeling he was rapidly sinking into.

_“In time. You’re getting better.”_ Serella reassured him.

Concentration on his own aether had not been a primary focus in his training as a knight, beyond knowing how to use Holy and Clemency. Having to learn to use his aether as an extension of himself rather than a resource to tap into proved difficult, but he was learning— and had ample incentive to master it.

And an apt, patient tutor that he did not deserve.

_“Reach out for me,”_ She instructed in a breathy whisper.

His brow knit in concentration, mapping out the trail of her aether from where it touched him, trying desperately to find her in the dark. A grunt of mild frustration with himself escaped him when he struggled to push his aether outside of himself.

_“Breathe deep through your nose─let the air fill your lungs, then let it pass from your lips.”_ He obeyed, chest rising and falling in heavy pants. Gently, she tutted, _“Slower, slower…”_

In the span of a few breaths, the bed fell away. There was only her scent in his nose, her aether embedded in his soul, touching, caressing, and his own reaching, reaching, _searching—_

_“Listen to my voice. Listen to your heartbeat. Listen…”_

The more Aymeric focused, the less there was of him left to feel, and less of her to find. She thrummed in the space that was meant to be his chest, weightless and dissolved as he was. With every breath he grew lighter and slipped further into the abyss…

“Ella.” He sighed her name on a pleading exhale, in exaltation, in worship, in _need._

As a lock gives in to a key, her name was as a causeway for him to at last find her in the dark. She was as a radiant sun, dark skin aglow in her own light, eyes twinkling like twin stars in his orbit, hair bleeding into the shadows until he couldn’t tell where the darkness ended and she began. It was only as a flash in his mind, gone as fast as a shooting star in the night sky, but he relished in her surprised grin, bright and toothy and all for _him._

The small of his back left the bed at the shock of her fully wrapping herself around him, sinking _into_ him, just a little, just _enough._ He could no longer tell whether it was because he pulled her in, or she had fallen into him. It no longer mattered.

_“Oh,_ there you are.” He whispered in rapturous relief.

Her chuckle was all dark velvet and smoke against the shell of his ear. He shuddered, even as he welcomed the sensation.

_“Did I not tell you? Have I not promised?”_ She pressed, and as she did he had to remind himself that it was _not_ her mouth latching onto his neck. _“You could call out to me in nothing more than a whisper, and I would still hear you a world away. I would still answer you from the grave.”_ That tingling, overwhelming sensation left his neck and brushed almost chastely against his brow. _“Did you not know?”_

“I did,” Aymeric panted as a single line of fire being drawn from the dip of his throat down, down, down his torso, plucking inspiration along his muscles that jolted his tailbone up from the mattress. “I did, _I do,_ Ella, _please—”_

_“Please what?”_

Serella’s words might have been innocent, but those hands that were not there, searing and soft and aching as they were, had begun to trace lines along his chest, his sides, over the ever so faint flare of his hips down to the insides of his quivering thighs. If her words had ignited his blood, the sensation of her rippling across the surface of his very soul engulfed him entirely.

Another touch— the sensation of a hand carefully taking hold of his chin. He wondered if she could sense the way his throat bobbed with a heavy swallow. A press against his lips sent him quivering with the want to reciprocate and the urge to recoil from the overstimulation entirely.

_“You need only ask.”_

“I miss you.” Aymeric whispered, as though that could even encapsulate everything he felt, everything he wanted to say. Likely, she already knew it all anyroad. “Touch me?”

_“You have to tell me where.”_ She hissed voice tight against her own need.

Likely, she could have felt for it, dipped her fingers deeper than the surface to pluck at his needs and taste them between her teeth, but that was not her way. She _needed_ consent from him, for them both. Adoration, already insurmountable in its depth, swelled all the more in his chest. 

“I love you.” He sighed.

_“That doesn’t tell me where I can touch.”_ A laugh, huffed in soft awe from half a world away, interrupted her. He felt it against his temple when she brushed her aether there in a kiss. _“But I love you, too.”_

Heat bloomed on his face, and crept outward to pull down to his chest, up to the tips of his ears. If she kept going in that low, purring voice of hers, he was certain that blush would only continue to spread. At the thought of answering, the heat practically doubled, his lucidity crumbling.

Back and forth, back and forth, aether rubbed against his hips, squeezing intermittently, comforting. It felt almost close enough to her hands that his mind could remember how the callouses on her palms felt. _Ah,_ a brief moment of awareness flickered through the pleasurable haze: their connection was deepening. There was a startling amount of comfort to be found in that.

“Can you feel it? Where I want you?” He asked, more than half into the pillow for how deeply he breathed in her scent.

_“...Yes.”_ She whispered as if in great reluctance.

“Then...then am I not telling you?”

His words tapered off at a caress, soft and cool as fresh fallen snow, stroked down his lips, his chin, his neck, and traced circles against his sternum. A shudder rippled through him, down to his toes. Overheated and overwhelmed, the duvet fell away— or he might have kicked it off. He gripped blindly at sheets and pillows, no less warm for how she encompassed him. 

Hesitation radiated from her— he would have known it even were they not tethered thus. With a demure, _“please,”_ moaned into the pillow, surety chased the doubt away.

The pressure returned to his inner thigh, soft as a whisper, tickling the muscle there as he twitched and wriggled, delighted and frustrated all at once— until it slithered up, up, _up—_

Aymeric gasped wetly at the cool brush of aether slipping into him. Despite the lack of something solid he felt _full_ as it slipped into him, expanded— or were those more fingers? The dark obscured everything but the pleasure that rippled across him. At a stroke against his clit, he squeezed his thighs, face flushing hotly at the wet squelch of him.

_“Ohh, you haven’t had time to take care of yourself, have you?”_ Serella moaned in his ear. 

Any intelligible response he had died in a whine when she began to pump within him— and how _peculiar,_ how he felt near full to bursting despite being so _empty—_ when he made to reach for himself, to try to reconcile the ache between his thighs with how deliciously she had stretched to fill him, she tutted in his ear.

_“You know better. Behave for me.”_

His ears burned. His hands shook, even as they returned to clutching at the sheets and her pillow. 

“What,” Aymeric stammered half into the pillow. “Would you have of me?”

_“Everything, in time.”_ Her voice was all hushed husk and promise, and it settled deep in the pit of his chest. _“But for now, open up for me.”_

Another touch at the inside of his knee, a different hand— were there more than two? He could not tell anymore— coaxing his legs to go lax enough for him to ease. With a deep breath _(slower, slower…)_ he let the muscles within him that had clinched ease. He felt Serella everywhere, whispers of warm aether that left him shivering, brushes of cold that left him panting. It was all he could do to hear her and obey _(listen to my voice, listen…)_ and pray for salvation.

_“There we are.”_ His shield cooed, and he felt little pecks of aether— if he focused, they felt almost wet, like open mouthed kisses— trail from his lips down to his fluttering pulse at his neck. _“Such a good boy for me. So, so good.”_

She moved again, in him. Her rhythm was slow, methodical. Testing. He still could not divine with what part of her he was being filled, but reconciled that it no longer mattered: it was _her,_ and that was _enough._ A lack of those familiarly lewd, wet noises that accompanied the slide of something inside him would have been jarring, were he not so sunk into the abyss as he was. 

“Need you here.” He whispered, and fought the urge to curl himself bodily around the pillow. 

_“I_ am _here. Find me in the dark, dear one.”_

Even through the mounting pressure, even through the winding coil in his belly that warned him of his impending demise, he pushed out again, searching, _needing._ The pleasure was excruciating, exquisite. It was too much, it was not _enough—_

The tangle of hair in his fingers, luxurious and soft as a dream. Scars he had mapped out a thousand thousand times over in the dark of night, smoothed over with the passage of time. He felt them beneath his palms, _relished_ in the delighted gasp it drew from her. It distracted him— his discovery and the pleasure she was dedicated to wringing out of him both— and he could not quite— he struggled to map where his hands should _go—_

“Dearest.” He panted, hips stuttering against her touch, steadily growing surer, faster, greedier. His already closed eyes squeezed, his focus fraying as the pleasure mounted.

_“I’m here, even when you can’t find me. It’s alright.”_ She was babbling— ah, she was close, riding his high through their shared connection. _“I have you, let go, I have you—”_

He did as he was told. He was hers to command. He was hers, always. 

His trust was returned a hundred fold, and along with more of those softer, gentle caresses through his hair, presses to his temple, his mouth, in heated kisses that he could not chase, that sliding piston of aether— more defined, the more he felt, with tendrils that tapered off like fingers that hooked, stroked, _flexed_ inside of him— working him so hard he could no longer keep still. 

Head thrown back into her pillow, Aymeric helplessly cried out, restraint abandoned, as he felt himself build perilously toward release— himself, and her, too, he realized as Serella let out a muffled moan. It was effortless to picture her, teeth sunk into her bedroll, hands working at the natural kyanite foci she had, curled into herself to keep quiet in camp. Digging his heels into the mattress, he scrabbled for purchase, hips working in time with her stroking, even knowing it would do nothing.

“Please— c-close, _please—”_

Serella’s strained _“mhm,”_ was nearly lost in the tinny static of the linkpearl, but it was maybe another few dexterous strokes— or perhaps it had been an hour of them, time had long since lost its meaning to him— when finally the coil snapped, and some distant part of him was grateful for the silencing enchantments she had put in place before her departure for how he all but _wailed_ at the weight of his orgasm as it hit him. It was no release, it was a crushing, shattering constriction of his every nerve, the destruction of every thought that was not relevant to her or their shared pleasure, a calamity of every sense he possessed in his earthly body. 

There was no freedom from this blissful height, this agonizing climb beyond rapture: Serella continued.

_“‘M not done,”_ She growled in his ear, and a sob tore from him. _“Stay with me, ‘m close, ‘m_ close, _be good for me—”_

Just as Serella gave him the sensation of her touch, so, too, was he gifted with the feeling of her pleasure. Aymeric could feel her teeter on a knife’s edge, so perilously close to falling over—

Lacking in the mastery of aether touch, he yet had other weapons he could put to use.

“Please, my dear— you’re so good to me.” He moaned, blinking back the tears that welled from the overstimulation. At her choked back gasp, he curled on his side, thighs pressing in a way that left them both gasping when the motion pressed on his swollen oversensitive clit. “Come for me, won’t you? _Oh—”_

At the thrusting inside him growing more powerful, more insistent, he shuddered so violently he wound up holding himself up on his forearms, overstimulated into trying to rock backwards, moved into needing more, needing _less—_

Desperate, he clutched at the back of his own head, gathered a fistful of his hair, and _pulled._ The sharp stinging was pleasurable, in contrast to the smooth glide of her unseen fingers inside of him, and he could tell she felt that difference acutely.

_“How fucking_ dare _you—”_ Serella cursed through her teeth.

“Anything,” He panted, desperate, openly weeping at the way his whole body near vibrated with the overloading of his sense. His grip on his hair tightened. “Anything to help, anything for you, _please,_ Ella—”

Blindly fumbling but no less eager to see to her pleasure, he reached out, out, _out_ with one more push, and sunk his teeth into the pillow the moment he felt his aether press back against hers.

If his orgasm had robbed him of any sense and sensibility, _her_ orgasm bowling him over while he tried to recover from the aftershocks of his own was enough to rob the breath from his lungs. He forgot how to even _gasp_ for more of it, eyes rolling back in his head, mouth falling open to let go of the pillow, needing to let go of his hair for fear of ripping it _out—_

Aymeric was all but certain he cried out further at her release, but he only heard her muffled sighs, her strained, choked back cries of pleasure at each wave that rippled from her to him. Would that she were truly, physically here, he could drink in how vocal she could get, how he could get her to absolutely _sing_ for him, when they had the time to properly indulge.

He collapsed into a boneless heap on the bed again, his whole body rising and falling with the heave of his panting breaths. Every ilm of him tingled in heady buzzing, but still, still she was there.

“Stay with me.” He whispered when he remembered how to breathe. “A while longer.”

_“Lest we both crash. I know. I have you.”_ She panted into the connection.

Her aether slipped out of him as smoothly as it had entered. He shuddered, wincing at the realization that his thighs were positively _dripping_ with his quim. Once he could get his legs under him, that would need tending to. 

Tomorrow, likely, he realized when he tested wiggling his toes and realized he could not feel it. 

Despite the emptiness between his legs, he could only curl up, reaching blindly for the blanket again, as her aether took to soothing him. Stroking at his hair, gently rubbing at the base of his skull where he had pulled— ah, a bit too hard, he realized belatedly.

_“You’re getting better at this.”_ Serella spoke up, voice a tired but pleased purr.

“And _you_ are entirely too good at it.” He huffed, all pretense of annoyance undermined by his giddy laugh. “My legs have left me.”

_“A pity. They’ll run into Estinien when he gets home, I’m sure. He’s due back tonight, yeah?”_

Aymeric gave a tired hum, sinking into the mattress almost as deeply as he had in the abyss. Not nearly as deeply as he had wanted to sink into _her,_ though he contented himself as best he could with the knowledge that he would be able to in time.

Distantly, he heard the front door unlock and creak open against the howling wind. His ear perked at familiar steps— and more familiar still cursing at the cold— as the door was hastily closed again.

“He must have heard us talk of him.” Aymeric teased in a tired mumble.

_“Just came in? Sounds like him. I’ll let you sleep, dear one— tell him I’ll be home soon.”_

“I will.” He paused, hand clenched in the pillow, nose buried into the fabric to try and chase her scent, to keep a part of her here with him. “Dream of us?”

_“I always do. I love you.”_

“As I love you.”

Aymeric scarcely closed the linkpearl before Estinien stepped into the bedroom. The dragoon seemed to know what was happening— Serella tapered off her aether from Aymeric slowly, gently, to avoid that awful _hollow_ feeling that could come with severing such a connection too quickly. He settled into bed beside Aymeric with a chuckle that tapered off into a huff when he was almost immediately clung to. 

Aymeric could not help it; the last of her aether leaving him always left him needing something grounding, and if it was affection, more was the better. Regardless of how slowly she let go, there was always a bit of emptiness in the wake of her absence. Though, he supposed he felt that even when they had not done anything of the sort, whenever she was not home.

“Ella will be home soon.” He dutifully relayed her message.

“Three weeks, five days, give or take some hours.” Estinien nodded into the crook of Aymeric’s neck, sinking into him with a content sigh. “I know. I’ve been keeping track.”

The bed was not at full capacity, but it was occupied enough to not feel alone, and the two of them made that enough to drift off into gentle sleep, counting down the hours all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know where I was going with this, but it sort of ran away from me and I just kinda. Let it. :p I don't really have much life advise here other than be sure to practice safe sex, test regularly if you have multiple partners to protect everyone involved, and that consent is sexy, y'all, and that applies to all aspects of your life, not just relationships!
> 
> I'll very likely be exploring more of their polyamorous relationship in later entries- or, bare minimum, in their actual story outside of ffxivwrite, "As Ever," and its eventual follow-ups. I've been thinking of sectioning off their tale by expansions, to make for an easier reading experience. I hope this sparks joy!


	5. Matter-of-fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While on the road with a beloved friend and lover, Serella stumbles onto a place of grim import- though her friend's reaction is, perhaps, the more appropriate of the two of them. Featuring a very dear friend to me's OC, Hyana Geriel. You can find them over at holyja.tumblr.com!
> 
> Mild spoilers for 5.0-5.3 if you squint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for this chapter: reference to death and dying, but nothing explicit or gruesome

It had been a relatively mundane day in the South Shroud, insofar as adventurers such as Hyana and Serella were concerned. Leves abound for them to occupy their afternoon with, and they were making their way back north along the well traveled paths in the early evening sunset, pockets heavier with gold and spirits lighter for the satisfying work. They had been chatting amicably, sides playfully and affectionately bumping into one another on occasion, hands brushing as they went. 

Then something caught Serella’s eye from beyond the trees. She stopped moving.

“I died half a malm from here.”

It took three paces before Hyana registered what was said, but she then froze, mid-step, lips still wrapped around a word she caught between her teeth in the shock from Serella’s comment. The words, so matter-of-fact, spoken as casually as someone noticing a stormcloud in the distance, settled poorly in her gut. Her mind struggled to grasp it.

 _“What?”_ Was all she could manage.

“Give or take, I mean. Not necessarily exact.” The Paladin said, still in a strange, uncanny calm. She squinted. “You can actually see the circle of grass I woke up in. Huh.” She canted her head toward that spot in the trees that Hyana, for a blessing, could not see. “Did you want to see—”

 _“No_ , I don’t want to see it!” Hyana cried, voice shrill around the tightness that constricted her throat. “What the _fuck_ , Serella!”

“Is…? Oh.” Serella blinked owlishly at her. “It’s...upsetting? My apologies, I didn’t—”

“Didn’t think it would be? How could you n— you know what, no.” Hyana held out her hands as if to create a barrier between them. “No, no, we are _not_ discussing this further. I’m ending this conversation. _Now.”_

“As you like. I’m sorry, Violet.” Serella said softly, in genuine remorse.

Their walk back to the city was tense and quiet. Even the forest seemed to hush in the wake of the exchange.

For a blessing, Serella didn’t bring it up again. Hyana, for her part, took several days to process the information. To reconcile the fact that she _had_ died at all, with the most decidedly alive, warm woman that she wrapped herself around every night. It took until they were back home, in Ishgard, before she could even broach the subject again, though she had the good grace to wait until it was just the two of them in the house.

“So you died.” Hyana broke the silence that morning, seated at the bay window. 

Even saying the words still made her blood run cold. She curled her fingers tighter around her mug of tea on reflex, in search of warmth.

“I did.” Serella replied, tone more appropriately soft this time.

When she joined Hyana on the window seat, she brought with her a tray laden with a kettle, her own mug, and all the appropriate accoutrements for making tea. She busied herself with making a cup of tea.

“You want to ask me about it.” Serella spoke up after a moment.

“I want to know what happened.” Hyana frowned deeply. “I can’t...I can’t picture it.”

“Flattering as that is, I assure you I was a completely different person back then.” With a sigh, Serella leaned against the section of the bay window that was not glass, her cup in hand. “Though I suppose we all were, before the Calamity.”

 _That_ got Hyana’s attention.

“You died in the Calamity?”

“Aye. But not in Carteneau, lest you wonder.” Serelle pursed her lips. “If you can believe it, I hadn’t yet served in any military. I barely knew how to hold a sword.”

Somehow the image of Serella Arcbane, Free Paladin of Eorzea, Shield to All, struggling to know what to do with a sword, of all things, was harder to reconcile than her being dead. 

Still, she tried. She listened. As Serella told the tale of how she had fought— and yes, died— for Gridanian civilians that the Adders had more or less turned their backs on. How she had run in and out of the fires on her chocobo (ahh, Vesh— Hyana made a mental note to bring her more gysahl greens when next they visited her retirement pen) to get survivors out. At first, she could feel nothing but pride for how Serella had moved in the face of something so awful. For all her insistence that she was a completely different person, Hyana still saw them as the same, if different in terms of skillset. 

Then Serella spoke of the end. Of dying to voidsent, of living just long enough to watch Dalamud fall. How, in the end, she had died alone, terrified, and bleeding out into the forest that had taken everything from her.

“But you aren’t dead.” Hyana said, half to be contrarian, half to remind herself that Serella was _alright_.

“Well, no. I _did_ get back up again.” Serella shrugged. “I woke up as though it had all been a dream. It had to have been a few days later, at least. The fires were out, but everything still smoldered. Everything was covered in ash. But there was this perfect circle of grass around me. Like I’d been in a shield, waiting to be woken up.”

“Hydaelyn?” Hyana asked, almost to herself.

“Seems likely.” Another shrug. “I woke up with my crystal in hand, and suddenly I could hear Her voice in my head.” She took a drink of her tea and mumbled, “And, well. You know the rest.”

Hyana did. How Serella had reunited with her Duskwight tribe, how they had gifted her her dress signifying her as grown, and had, in time, sent her tearfully off on that fateful chocobo cart ride to Ul’Dah, where fate had begun its wild, rapid spiral into the new “normal,” they had embraced.

And it had all started with Serella _dying._

If she hadn’t seen a starshower...if she hadn’t been an Amaurotine beforehand...if the groundwork for her coming back hadn’t been laid out millennia ago—

Hyana set her teacup down, moved the tray away from the both of them, and clamored onto Serella’s lap. With less gentle hands than she had intended, she took Serella’s teacup from her loose grip, set it aside, and simply lay herself down against the Paladin. As if the weight of her, slight as it was comparatively speaking, could further anchor her lover here. As if she could protect her from all that had happened before.

“Violet…?” Serella called gently into her horn. A hand came up, rubbing gentle, soothing circles into her back. “I’m here. I’m alright—”

“Shut up.” Hyana growled, and when the backs of her eyes faintly burned, she bit down into Serella’s shoulder. “You fucking _died._ Don’t tell me you’re _alright.”_

“...Yeah.” Her hand didn’t stop moving. “Neither of us are really ‘alright,’ though, are we?”

“Shut _up.”_

Hyana bit into her shoulder again, harder this time, in the vain hope it would get either of them to feel something other than numb. She was only marginally successful.


	6. Free day: Onward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I decided Moenbryda is no longer dead.

Moenbryda had offered her life to destroy an Ascian— had given herself wholly, aether, body and all— to channel the Warrior of Light’s abilities and put an end to the immediate threat on the lives of those she held dear. She’d do it again, a thousand times over, with no regrets, even knowing that it would spell the end for her.

Which was why it was most fascinating that she just. Woke up again.

Blinking back the dark, she realized she was staring up at the night sky glittering overhead. Beneath her, the ground was hard— harder than dry, packed dirt, she realized when she tried to sit up too quickly and knocked her head against the ground. She flexed her fingers, blunt nails sliding smoothly along— _aha!_ It was crystal! Meaning she was very likely on the outskirts of Mor Dhona!

 _Actually_ sitting up and turning her head proved her hypothesis correct when her eyes settled on the stone looming behind her as a grim grave marker. The symbol of Thaliak etched into the boulder— accompanied by the little sprites flitting about the space and the crystaline tree not far off— informed her of her exact location.

Most excellent! That meant she had a clear path to the Rising Stones, and ample time to contemplate how she woke up here, and why.

 _Hear…feel…think…_ a low, motherly voice whispered in the darkest corners of her mind, crooning like a siren calls to a sailor lost as sea. A glint of light beside her drew her attention to a crystal, bright and red and warm in her hand.

Intriguing! Something to study on her walk back to base!

Operating on the working theory that she was now one of the people Hydaelyn tapped into and turned into an Echo bearer— or at least, a close enough approximation to inspire the theory to have merit— Moenbryda stood on somewhat wobbly legs.

Hmm. Most inefficient. Some time must have passed since her death— or perhaps death robbed one of any nutrients they had previously had. Another intriguing mystery! Doubtless one of the Archons would have a solution!

The paths through Mor Dhona and into the adventurer settlement proper. The closer she came to the Rising Stones, the wider her grin spread until her cheeks vaguely hurt as she tugged open the door leading down to the Scion’s headquarters. Wait ‘till Uriangier sees her, the _look_ on his face will be—

The lights were as soft as they ever were in the Rising Stones, but there was an unmistakable _gloom_ that hung around the place. Her footsteps slowed at the base of the stairs. Save for the low din of some of the Scions off beyond the partitions chatting, the space was dreadfully empty. 

Had she just missed them? Assignments were likely frequent, Moenbryda remembered the frenetic comings and goings of the Archons in particular, when she had first arrived. She should check on Minfilia! If anyone would have answers, it’d surely be her!

The door to the Solar felt unexpectedly heavy. The hinges resisted opening for her, implying that much time had passed and very little use had been made of these doors. A peculiar thought. 

Inside the Solar, a little boy in a dappled gray cloak slept peacefully on Minfilia’s chair, but that was not what drew Moenbryda’s eye. No, it was the familiar adventurer, rising from her seat by the fireplace, eyes wide as saucers. It was clear more time had passed than originally hypothesized; the Warrior of Light’s armor had grown more ornate, and her hair was now rather long— even haphazardly wrapped into a messy bun, it was clear it was far from the shoulder length hair she remembered.

“Moenbryda…?” Serella whispered.

“I gather from your expression, you were very much not expecting to see me again.” Moenbryda put on her best good cheer she could. “But never you worry, I’m here now! With a crystal, no less— and if I remember right, you and Minfilia are something of experts on that.”

The Paladin’s eyes lowered to the crystal Moenbryda held up. Her face turned ashen.

“Minf— oh gods, where do I start…” Serella whispered, a trembling hand pressing to her lips.

Clearly, more tragedy had happened in that time. More than any one person should have to go through. But Moenbryda wasn’t one of those tragedies anymore— and she was always, always a friend.

She closed the distance and laid a gentle hand on Serella’s arm. With a smile, she suggested, “Let’s start with a bite to eat— we could both use it, I’m sure.” She squeezed Serella’s arm. “Then you can tell me everything I’ve missed. Let’s work through this problem, yeah?”


	7. Nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crystal Exarch has no nameday to speak of. Lyna refuses to let this stand.
> 
> 5.0 spoilers, but especially toward the end, there's Big 5.3 Spoilers!!!

The Crystal Exarch had long since lost track of when his nameday was, to say nothing of how many of them that had passed him by. Even long before the Crystarium rose around his tower, he had given up keeping track of his exact age. The community that turned to him for guidance didn’t ask, likely out of respect for what they recognized was a painful past of a kind man who tried to forget it all, even as he clung to all the good he had known and fought to save.

Little Lyna, however, the inquisitive little girl with bright, keen eyes and a need for familiarity with the man she viewed as a grandfather, had no hesitation in asking, even if she had already asked at least a dozen other times over the years, and had yet to receive a satisfactory answer.

“Exarch, when is your nameday?” She asked one year, as he had mentioned wanting to plan for her nameday coming up. 

Her words were wrapped around a lisp, her teeth not quite grown in— soft, barely there if one wasn’t paying attention, but the Exarch always did. He always had time to listen to his granddaughter, even if he didn’t always have it in him to be honest with her. Or anyone, really.

“I don’t have one!” He replied, as he always did.

And as always, that didn’t satisfy her.

When she puffed her cheeks out in annoyance at him, he paused in pursuing their pantry shelves for cake ingredients to ruffle the hair between her ears. Batting his hand away and giving a whine in the back of her throat as she tried to fix her mussed up bangs, she scowled up at him.

“You _have_ to have one! Everyone does!” Lyna insisted.

“I’m not everyone, and I am quite certain I do not have a nameday, little one.” 

“That’s not true!” She raised her voice, startling him. “Why can’t you just _tell me!”_

She growled in frustration and stamped her foot, and at first he had been prepared to calm another fit, as children are wont to have, but then when he turned to face her at a soft sniffle, he realized she was legitimately upset— and worse, that _he_ had upset her.

“Lyna—”

He knelt down to her level, hand reaching out toward her again. Not teasing this time, but comforting, a hand on her shoulder as she ducked her head. He heart squeezed— she only ever hid her face from him so when she was trying not to cry.

When she shoved his hand away with both of hers with a hiccup and scrubbed at her own eyes, he couldn’t find it in him to blame her.

“Lyna, tell me how I’ve upset you.” He requested, deliberately keeping his voice soft. 

He already knew why she was upset, but it was important that she learn the words to express her upset, and that she should be able to give voice to them when she was hurt, even by family. _Especially_ by family.

“You always lie to me.” The little Viis girl sobbed, knuckles still rubbing at her eyes. “You’re my grandpa and I don’t know anything about you!”

The Exarch paused again, hand hovering in the space between them before resting his forearm on his knee as he watched her weep, his heart twisting at the sight. Deep down, in that part of him that remembered he had once had a name and had wanted to _be_ someone to _someone_ stirred at being loved in such a simple, familial way. Demanded that he comply with his granddaughter’s one wish: to give him a nameday and not argue with her on the point. 

He had already failed in distancing himself so she wouldn’t mourn him when he died, reasoned the part of him that remembered he had once been G’raha Tia. Would it be so awful to give her something happy to cling to? Something she could say she did?

Hadn’t that been what he had wanted more than anything as a little boy, clinging to his books of history and fairy tales alike, because they accepted him for who he was more than his tribe had?

“I’m sorry, little one.” The Exarch murmured, voice only just louder than her sniffles and hiccups. “I try to protect you from everything, but in so doing, I fear I’m only hurting you.”

When she peered up at him with wide, glassy eyes through the fringe of her bangs, he offered her a remorseful but pleading smile.

“In truth, I forgot when my nameday was.” He said, technically in truth for how he had lost track of the Eorzean calendar, and how it could translate to Norvrandt’s. “So I simply don’t have one.”

“Then I’ll give you one!” She pointed at him with another stamp of her foot. “Everyone deserves a nameday!”

A simplistic, if genuine argument. It wasn’t a matter of not deserving one, but not wanting to keep one, not wanting to _know._ Bad enough that he was distantly aware that he was a nonagenarian at that point, bad enough that he had to _live_ with the guilt he had. No, having an actual nameday would be a line to cross, every year, that would remind him of how long he had lived like this, how long he had to wait to right a wrong he hadn’t even been around to try and prevent. Having such a marker would make it worse.

“Tell you what, Lyna.” The Exarch smiled, and held out the hand not yet claimed by the tower. “You can pick a day— any day of the year, any one that you like— and you can celebrate it for me.”

“...Promise?” Lyna asked, not yet accepting his handshake and giving him a suspicious side eye.

“I promise.” He swore with a firm nod.

After another moment of her examining his offered hand, a smile slowly bloomed on her face as she accepted his handshake. They shook on it, hands bobbing in one single shake. And after a moment, the Exarch offered his arms stretched wide for a hug. With a giddy laugh, Lyna leapt into them and let her grandfather scoop her up in a hug.

It was maybe a week later, maybe a mite longer, that he found a lumpy, misshapen little cake on his desk. The frosting ran off the side, more watery icing sugar than true frosting, and the cake was half burned with lumps of unmixed flour dotting the inside. Beside the child’s baking attempt, there sat a little crayon drawing of what appeared to be a very red man with triangles on his head holding hands with a little grey, stretched out stuck bunny beside him. Above the little sketch of him and Lyna, the words, “HAPPEE NAMDAY GRAMPA” were written, the letters alternating in color between what crayons she had at her disposal.

The was the best nameday cake he had ever had.

As the years wore on, and Lyna outgrew him almost one and a half times over as she matured into the strong, powerful, dignified Captain that he had always thought she could be, she never forgot. It was almost their little secret.

It was never the same day of the year— that never really mattered anyroad— but one day, each day of the year, Lyna would leave a little cake and a note for him, wishing him a happy nameday. The innocent and unskilled drawings of a youthful child gave way over the years to respectful but muted letters of well wishes and expressions of gratitude, wrapped in hopes that he had a pleasant day. Despite the ever increasin professionalism with which she carried herself, Lyna had never once lost a bit of that warmth that made people follow her into the jaws of death itself.

Then one year, decades after they had established that the Exarch got to have a nameday, that Lyna chose to deliver his cake in person.

The cake itself was her best yet. Vanilla buttercream frosting made fresh that morning piped in a perfect little mound atop a little spice cake that perfectly fit in the palm of her hand. A perfect, singular serving. She had packed a little satchel with a thick blanket, a thermos of tea to compliment the cake, (a nice black tea, strong enough to balance out the sweetness of the cake,) and set out early that morning.

She had the day off, and had found herself wanting for the Exarch’s counsel. The people had begun to turn to her more and more in recent times, and though she offered them a sturdy pillar to lean on, she wondered if this was beyond her scope as Captain of the guard. If anyone would know how best to proceed, it would be him. That, and she hadn’t gotten around to celebrating his nameday this year. She would be remiss to let it pass by— she never had before, and was not going to stop now.

The stairs were numerous, and the path not quite familiar enough that she didn’t have to take heed of where she was going, but Lyna made it to him just as she had hoped she would. The dawn was just breaking beyond the horizon, and there was a light, sweet breeze drifting between the broad crystal pillars that held up the ceiling to this platform, at the very top of the Crystal Tower. The hallway between here and where her grandfather was resting was as a yawning expanse before her, giving the already ostentatious room an even more grandiose air.

All her life, Lyna had felt small compared to the might of the Crystal Exarch. This room felt the most like him, in that regard.

“Good morning.” Lyna said quietly when at last she stopped before her grandfather. “You did not assume me neglectful of your nameday, I hope?”

She averted her eyes as she removed her satchel and rolled the blanket out beside him. It was thick enough to be comfortable when she situated herself on it, sitting with her knees crossed. She set the cake down in the space between them, on a little kerchief, and took a few moments to pour herself a cup of tea in the calm quiet of the room.

Then, she began to speak. She told him of all that was happening in the Crystarium, all that the people had come to ask of her in his absence. There were children born in recent days that had asked after the Exarch’s name to give to them. Lyna instead offered them a name from any one of the tales that her grandfather had told her growing up, names of heroes that had stood up to do the right thing, whether that had been to proffer a blade to an enemy or give comfort to a friend. Between each tale, every bit of information she had to catch him up on, she would take a bite of the cake. Resources were not so plentiful that she would waste it in offering— and if the Exarch were here, that would be the last thing he would want from her.

The sun rose higher in the sky, catching the crystal of her grandfather’s torso. She brushed the crumbs away from her blanket and stood.

“I hope my report was sufficient.” Lyna murmured, rolling the blanket back up and sticking it back in her satchel. Her thermos, emptied of tea, soon followed. “...You could do with some plants here to keep you company. I cannot always be here.” After a moment, she said, almost to herself, “Perhaps we might start a garden here. Your garden.”

She looked back at her grandfather. Enshrined forever in crystal, eyes forever facing forward, the outlines of his face gleamed in the rising sun. His expression was that same, steadfast calm she had always known him to possess. Of all the things that were a mystery of him, she never once wondered if he had the courage to face his destiny. She had learned to tackle it head on from the best, after all.

“My duties will keep me away most of the time.” She told him, and in a strange way, she made this the goodbye she didn’t get to have. Or the closest thing she could make to it, anyroad. “But I will come back— as long as I live, you have a nameday, after all, remember?”

Her eyes stung. Her satchel felt heavy, slung over her shoulder— or perhaps that was because her heart felt lighter now. She had a rather long walk down to think on it. Through the blur of her tears and the warm, bright glow of the morning light, for a moment, she saw him— not the crystal, but the man that had taught her how to bake a cake, how to wield a weapon, how to be the woman she had become, smiling at her. 

When she blinked her tears away, he was gone. But then, he had never been there at all— and that was okay. He was happy, on that far flung somewhere he used to tell her stories about. Just as he had always wanted.

“Happy nameday, grandfather.” Lyna said to him, and left.


	8. Clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vague allusions to 5.3 spoiler-y dialogue, but otherwise doesn't delve into anything more specific than the battle at Ghimlyt still continuing.
> 
> Lucia feels stuck, sent back to Ishgard following an injury sustained on the battlefield in Ghimlyt. Communications were lost some fifteen minutes ago.
> 
> And then someone unexpected burst through the door.

Even after she had been relieved from the frontlines on account of injury, Lucia was never truly at rest. Acting in the Lord Commander’s stead as he remained afield, her daily correspondence with him was a necessity, even as it made her itch down to her bones for how idle she felt, waiting back home while so many other proud Ishgardians were still fighting, dear friends she considered family among them.

As soon as she was properly recovered, she would be rejoining them, she reminded herself. It did little to truly soothe her anxiousness, but it was enough of a balm on her pride to keep her focus on the duties that she had the ability to carry out.

That anxiety had made the First Commander twitchy, however. Hyper aware of everything around her, even in the quiet of the Congregation in the dead of night. She had no real reason to be on such high alert— Ser Handeloup was on his way to change shifts with her, and Hilda had already come to drop off a late dinner from the Forgotten Knight and a kiss goodnight before heading home. She had no one she had to anticipate approaching for the next bell or so— which, she supposed, was exactly why her senses were straining to pick up a sound out of place or not expected, especially working at the war table in front of the entrance as she was.

In particular, when her line to the Lord Commander was cut short some ten minutes ago. She felt responsible for it, even knowing that she would be a detriment to his contingent in her current condition. The knowledge did little to ease her nerves, which in turn left her on high alert with nothing to focus all of this hyper awareness on.

Which was something of a blessing; Lucia heard someone running up toward the doors to the Congregation, their footsteps clacking loudly on the stone road outside, even muffled through the thick Mahogany doors. There was a clamor outside, momentarily— _just_ beyond the doors. The voices of knights hailing the person running, shouts to wait tapering off into shocked noises that sharply grew in volume as the massive doors were shoved open. She had already begun to sit up straighter and ease herself up from her chair altogether as the door hinges groaned, alerting her and half of Foundation that someone had just walked in. A sharp twinge in her leg drew her attention away from the guest, and she took a moment to brace it with a hand and grit her teeth as she shuffled herself, armor and all, into the closest thing resembling parade rest that she could manage with her injuries.

A stance that went slack with shock when she saw who had entered the Congregation. Even as her leg still twinged with pain, muscles protesting sudden movement and stitches displeased with the stretch of skin over flexing muscles, it felt distant, looking at the woman who had just walked in the door.

Serella’s hands still hung on the massive door handles, body still leaned into the half opened doors, one leg stretched forward, though she had grown still as their eyes met. The olive green travel cloak draped over her armor did little to hide the wear and tear it had endured. That _she_ had endured.

Time seemed to still in that moment. Two sisters hovering in a literal and proverbial threshold, hesitant to reach out and cross the distance that hasty actions and words born of hurt had made between them. That forgiveness and apologies had already been exchanged long before Serella had been made to travel to another realm entirely was beside the point; they had had so little time to truly heal together before war and impending cataclysm had demanded they walk different paths, however temporarily. That there was hesitation in both of them spoke to their need to continue healing, to continue talking and moving beyond that godforsaken investigation that had nearly undone their bond.

Time caught up with Serella first. With a shuddering breath, she stepped past the doors, into the Congregation proper, and let the heavy doors creak shut behind her. Even as the light readjusted again, the shadows wrapped around the Warrior of Light like a second skin, the low light of the lamps did nothing to hide how wide her eyes were as she stared at Lucia. They did even less to hide the way they welled up in tears.

They had so much to talk about. So much yet unsaid, so much healing to be done, and Lucia felt every onze of it acutely. But when Serella’s lips quivered and her shoulders shook— only once, before she choked on the sob that nearly escaped her— and she hiccuped a very quiet, _“Cia,”_ none of that mattered anymore. Not at that moment.

The pain in Lucia’s leg barely registered in her mind, even as she stumbled around the table, nearly toppling over in her scramble to reach her sister. Serella seemed of like mind, for a blessing, and had been there to catch her in a clutching, desperate embrace. Lucia’s injured leg might have buckled, just a bit from her twinging nerves, but Serella squeezed her so tightly it hardly changed their posture. 

“When we heard naught from you for so long, we feared the worst.” Lucia admitted into the soft fabric of her cloak. 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

A hand came up— gentle, warm through the fingerless glove— and gently pet the shorn hair at the back of Lucia’s head. Her eyes burned. In an effort to swallow the impending tears, she squeezed them shut.

“The Alliance is probably getting correspondence from Tataru as we speak.” Serella sniffled, and drew away to swipe at her own eyes. Lucia yet held fast to her arm, anchoring her here before something robbed her of her sister again. “But the Scions are awake. They yet need more time before they can return to their duties, of course, but—”

The Paladin was stumbling over her words, desperately trying to get them out in her excitement, eyes still shimmering over much in the warm torchlight with each frenetic gesticulation of her arm.

“You bring the best news I have heard in months,” Lucia admitted. “Would that most of us were not yet dispatched. I lost contact with them not even a bell ago.”

To her horror, tears of overwhelming frustration welled in her eyes. Swallowing them down proved near impossible— all the more insurmountable when Serella drew her back into another embrace.

“I can do _nothing_ like this.” Lucia hissed, fists clenching into her sister’s cloak. “My injuries are not healed, I would only endanger them, I can do _nothing—”_

“But I can.” Serella promised, and pulled away again, hands on Lucia’s shoulders as she held her gaze with frenetic determination. “I _will_ find them— and I’ll bring them home. You’ve been fighting all this time. Least I can do is this.”

But letting her leave like this, with everything between them only half resolved but knowing that this warmth and closeness was still there and still theirs bade Lucia to squeeze at her arms as if to keep her there.

“It should not fall to you again. We ask too much of you as it is.”

“Good thing you aren’t asking, then.” Serella grinned. 

Her hands were gentle but insistent when she pried Lucia’s fingers off of her arms and held her hands in the space between them, her forehead pressed against Lucia’s third eye until her focus had closed in on only the two of them. The intimacy of the act— something they had not shared in so long, something that Lucia had feared they would never share again, left her nearly undone but for her ironclad professionalism.

“We have a lot we haven’t said— I know that. But I have a lot of words I need to say to a lot of people out there. So keep the faith: we _will_ speak again.”

Lucia had forgotten how reassuring it was to have her sister there. That though they could all stand on their own without her, they were objectively better for her, even when she did naught but stand beside them. She made them better, and made them want to be better. She hadn’t realized how close to despair she had been, following the loss of comms between home and Ghimlyt. Now, she drew herself to her full height, shoulders back, her mask of grim determination unmoving once more. 

“We will.” Lucia confirmed with a singular, firm nod.

Serella gave a nod and pulled the hood of her cloak back up. The shadows were not so deep that her face was obscured entirely, but the way her eyes vanished into the dark made the flash of her teeth in a broad grin seem all the brighter, even before she had begun to spin teleportation magicks. Even as she rose, gently, some few ilms, elevated by her spell, she held fast to Lucia’s hands until the aether swept her away entirely.

Handeloup burst through the doors just as the Warrior of Light dissipated. With nothing to hold on to, Lucia let her hands clench into fists at her sides.

“Which Arcbane was that?” He asked, panting from exertion— he must have run here, too.

“Serella.”

“Unsurprising.” Ever gracious, Handeloup spoke not of the tear treks that yet stained her face and chilled her skin. “To work, then?”

“To work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest as much as I love Lucia, I worry that this will come across as out of character for her. But if squeenix won't give her character depth, then by god, I'm gonna!


	9. Lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In that fugue between friendship and lovers, Hyana and Serella take a break in the Shroud to enjoy the weather- and also to talk of flowers and wolves and everything but this growing feeling between them.

When the winds were fair and free in the North Shroud, it rolled the fields of wildflowers and tallgrass like waves in the sea. Pinks, purples, blues, and yellows, all swaying in the sweet breeze in a mesmerizing ripple that chased the air currents that raced through them. There was nary a corner of all the Twelveswood that wanted for lush, verdant flora or the stone blue clarity of a flowing stream. Birdsong fluttered on those gently rolling waves of wind. It was…peaceful. 

A rarity, for Warriors of Light such as Serella and Hyana.

It was a sort of calm they wanted to disrupt with neither words nor footfalls, and once they conceded that the weather was unreasonably lovely, had agreed that a break was in order. 

As they set down their packs and Serella knelt to gather wildflowers and medicinal herbs, Hyana marveled at the Paladin’s hair. Such a deep black it nearly tinted blue in the bright midday sun, shimmering like the surface of the deepest ocean. Her hands itched to drift through it.

“You have bramble in your hair.” Hyana noted aloud before she thought better of it when she spied the little thorns sticking out of some errant tresses.

“Oh hells, _still?”_ Serella huffed.

When she raked a hand through her scalp as if in doubt, she yelped when it came away with some few prickly little nuisances stuck to her palm.

“There’s no sense in being stupid about it. Come here, I can see them better.”

By the time Serella turned to look back at her in surprise, Hyana had seated herself on a fallen log not far from where the wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze.

“Damnable treant.” Serella muttered darkly, even as she toddled over on her knees and sat herself down at Hyana’s feet, offering her her back and her hair.

And oh, but Serella’s hair was _breathtaking._ Fluffy as a cloud, soft as a dream, it was hard not to just bury her fingers in the heavy waves of her lush locks. Mindful of the brambles, Hyana set to work weeding them out.

Admittedly, they were few in number, but the thickness of her hair afforded Hyana ample excuse to play with it.

“You can, ah, put flowers in it, if you like.” Serella offered, gesturing at the wildflowers she had already picked. “Only if you like.”

Hyana had not realized herself so obvious, but then, the two of them were so uniquely attuned, it shouldn’t have surprised her. She reached for the brilliant blooms to hide the violets that painted their petals along her cheeks. Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Serella’s radiant, relieved smile, and forgot why she had even thought to grouse at them knowing one another so well. When Serella readjusted so her long, long hair swept out from between them and she sank deeper into the gap between Hyana’s legs, the dragoon scoffed to hide her flustering.

“Turning your back on a wolf is unwise, Arcbane.” Hyana teased in spite of their budding…not courtship, but their bond still lingered in metamorphosis.

Ever fearful of her own vulnerabilities- even ones as banal as wanting to play with a beautiful friend’s hair, she clung to old habits.

Serella threw her head back into Hyana’s lap as she openly laughed. Hyana felt a pang in her chest at the way those bright eyes of sea and sky crinkled at the corners and glimmered like starlight. 

Had they the time, Hyana would hoard every second she could and try to paint that laugh on a canvas, but she would never have enough space to fit it all. She ached to bury herself in that passion until she was splashed in the colors of that scarred smile, smudged with that impossibly gentle warmth. She would take the time to make that bright, sonorous laugh something tangible and wrap herself in it for all her tomorrows. Lacking the time in the moment, she settled for braiding the pinks, purples, blues, and yellows of the Shroud in Serella’s hair.

“If it is folly to offer you every part of me, my trust and my heart included, Geriel, then I am content to die a fool.” The Paladin replied softly, still peering up at her with that knowing glint that told Hyana that she was onto her.

Hyana, pretending to not see it, focused on braiding.


	10. Intoxicated - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is just some good ol' Aymeric/Estinien/Serella smut that's like. Almost entirely foreplay. Will I expand on this at a later date? Maybe???
> 
> cw: mention of alcohol use (but to emphasize, everyone here is sober, Estinien processes alcohol hella fast) and some very, very light dom/sub stuff going on, but nothing hardcore, along with some steamy grinding, but not much further than that. I hope this sparks joy!

Impossible as it was to plan out the schedules of three different people and make them align in such a way that would allow all three of them to be present at a gala, that both Estinien and Serella had gone out of their way to be available for Aymeric had meant a great deal to him. Even with Estinien’s obvious discomfort at being there, the night had been highly enjoyable— a rarity, thanks to the ways of the nobility. 

For a blessing, the gala was a smaller event, hosted by House Haillenarte following the first fledgling successes of the Firmament restoration project with attendees from both the nobility and those crafters that had been the best of the Firmament’s many, many contributors— a clever move, by Aymeric’s estimation: the celebration’s scale matched that of the first successes, a respite for those who had contributed, and for the benefactors that had donated monetarily to gloat, and those who had _actually_ put in the work to show their skill and discuss what work was yet to be done, which would in turn encourage further support in the Houses of the Lords and Commons. 

It was an excellent source of information, and he took careful note of each detail he picked up on for the next meeting between the Houses of the Lords and Commons. 

In truth, he had been content to sit back and watch Serella speak with those she had worked alongside on the ground floor of the restoration efforts; those who she had worked so hard with were now all dressed artfully, all stunning, each fawning over their own hand crafted outfits they had all used as a display of their skill. Another highly clever move on each of their parts, showing those who had still had doubts that those who worked on the Firmament restoration did so with the highest level of skill. 

Though really, he struggled to tear his gaze from Serella in that _stunning_ dress she draped herself in, swathed in a rich purple fabric that clung and cinched to highlight her muscular hourglass frame and flowed out where it would accentuate the flare of her hips and those long, _long_ chiseled legs of hers. 

Visionary and _vision_ , his betrothed.

Aymeric, for his part, had managed to hide how much Estinien had been leaning on him on the sidelines by fawning over how proud he was of Serella and those she had worked alongside; the retired Azure Dragoon had imbibed on, in his words, “As much liquor as will make this bearable,” though how much that had been a bit hazy; Estinien could not remember, and Aymeric had not seen. 

Still, by the time Serella had managed to slip away and join the two of them in the small circle of nobles that had been clinging to Aymeric’s side _nearly_ as much as Estinien was, it was getting harder to hide exactly how intoxicated Estinien had become. Hard enough that Serella, for a blessing, enthusiastically offered to hang off of Aymeric’s arm in his place while he stumbled away and beat a hasty retreat to Borel Manor— though not before he commented on how readily Serella stepped in.

“You are positively radiant, Ella.” Aymeric had murmured once the warmth of her had bloomed against his side.

“All the more when I’m with you,” She purred in response with an affectionate lean into him. 

The blessings of Halone herself seemed to come to him in abundance that night; Estinien’s stumbling out the door had been just apparent enough that when inquiries were made regarding his well being, Aymeric had leapt at the chance to use it as an excuse for the two of them to follow suit and return home to check on him. Though he had genuinely felt guilt for how their lover had been made uncomfortable enough to need to drink while at the party, it was hard to feel much more than grateful for the excuse to leave.

Though Aymeric himself had only one flute of champagne, Estinien was not the only one intoxicated.

Through the guise of gentlemanly courtesy— though also out of said courtesy, he helped her into her cloak, and used the excuse it gave him to lean close enough to press his face into the curve of her neck, lips brushing against her skin in whispers of kisses as he murmured praise and promises of _later_ in equal fervor. It thrilled him all the more when she perceptively shivered, sighed in blissful anticipation, and leaned backwards into his chest, pliant and willing and wanting. 

Good heavens, but the wind was positively _howling_ outside, he thought mildly when the windows creaked under the pressure of a particularly powerful gust, no less distracted for the observation. Quick as a bolt of lightning, he mouthed at her ear as he whispered a request for her to be good for him, just for a little longer.

 _“Always,”_ Serella hissed on an exhale, shaken out between her teeth.

“I know. Now dress warm, my dear.” 

Clasps of her cloak thus fastened at her collar, he used the excuse of brushing her hair away to skim his fingertips along the length of her throat. When she swallowed, he felt the weight of it shift beneath his touch, and he took a moment to press a kiss to her fluttering pulse and relish in her responsiveness. By the time he helped her pull her hood up— how peculiar, her hands were trembling, and they had yet to step outside— he felt warm enough to almost forego his own coat entirely. 

The walk to Borel Manor was not so far— a scant half a block, maybe some handful of paces more— but Aymeric managed to use every ilm between there and home as an excuse to lavish his Ella with attention. A hand gently resting at the base of her neck, a long, tapered finger twirling an errant lock of hair at the nape of her neck that managed to slip from her ribbon, his mouth at her ear murmuring in a low croon about every detail he so adored to pay extra attention to when they were alone, and how her dress highlighted every single one of them. Serella had foregone any sort of heel on her shoe in favor of flats, but to look at the way she stumbled and had to lean against him so with such a ruby red flush on her cheeks, one would think her a lush in stilettos at the tail end of a long bender.

 _“Please,”_ She panted, and on her exhale, crystalized in the cold, his gaze darted down to her lips to see they were faintly puffy from how she had been chewing on her bottom lip in a desperate bid for control. “I’m going to _die.”_

“Perhaps only a little, and perhaps only a dozen little times, if you so wish.”

He punctuated his words with a deliberate brush of his lips to the tip of her ear. When her knees buckled, just a little, and she whimpered, just a touch, he took the excuse to let go of her hair and slip his arm under her cloak to support her.

“You seem positively intoxicated, my dear,” he mused in a tone that even he could admit dripped with smug satisfaction. Not that it stopped him from nipping at the shell of her ear between breaths. “Are you certain you’ve not had too much to drink?”

“Only one glass, nearly a bell ago.” Serella wheezed, and her flush pulled up to the tips of her ears, crept down her neck, and doubtless had begun to venture lower yet. “You _know_ you do this to me.”

“Only when I make a concerted effort.” 

“Even when you _don’t,”_ she huffed, and when his hand wandered to the edge of respectability and cupped the swell of her breast beneath her cloak, she attempted to turn the tables just enough to mouth at the skin of his neck, only just peeking out from his collar.

Though he shuddered in delight at the sensation, he brought his free hand over to gently tilt her face away.

“Be good for me, won’t you?” He asked again in her ear. “Just a little further, now.”

At her pained whimper, he softened just enough to nose at the underside of her jaw. “I’ll take care of you. I promise,” he purred with a kiss to her chilled cheek.

“You always do,” Serella conceded, leaning into him bodily as he fished the house key from his pocket and ushered them both inside.

When the door was safely locked behind them and they were ensconced in the quiet dark of the entryway, Aymeric caught her hands in his when she moved to unclasp her cloak, and swallowed her inquiry with a heated kiss. 

“I promised to take care of you. Allow me.” He mumbled against her lips.

He trailed kisses down the slope of her neck, made available to him as he unfurled her cloak from around her shoulders, and as she angled her head to grant him further access. At the sensation of her nails gently dragging along his scalp, he let out a pleased hum, muffling it with a bite to her throat. There was just enough pressure behind his teeth to make her melt into his arms, just as he wanted.

Most of the house was dark, though as Aymeric guided them up the steps to the master bedroom— _their_ bedroom, he amended with a little thrill— a shuttered light flickered from beyond the closed door. 

The room was bathed in a low, warm glow, the hearth tucked in the corner crackling with a well tended to fire. Nestled within the duvet on the bed, he could make out the outline of Estinien lying there, gilded in hearthlight and dozing quietly. The chill outside was a distant memory as he drew her inside and quietly closed the door behind them.

Once the lock was turned, Aymeric refocused all of his attention to his betrothed, her hands coming up to untie her own laces out of habit.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted in gentle admonishment.

Serella’s hands froze in front of her, mid-reach, as she stared at him with slightly widened eyes. Her lips parted when he closed the distance between them in long but languid strides. When he reached for her hands to take them for himself, she gave them to him before he could even reach them. A smile bloomed on his face at that, how readily she let herself be in his care, how readily she trusted him enough to surrender her control to him.

“What did I promise you?” He asked her quietly, and kissed her knuckles as she stammered out an answer.

“You’d take care of me.”

“And you’ll let me?” He pressed with another kiss to the knuckles of her other hand.

“Always.”

With a pleased hum, he leaned in and gently rubbed his nose against hers. It took little coaxing to move her hands to press flat against his chest, though his smile darkened, just a touch, at the way her pupils dilated when she felt how his heart hammered.

“Keep them there for me, won’t you?” Aymeric asked. At her dazed nod, he crooned against her skin, “So good for me…”

The smile he pressed into her neck turned positively lascivious at the breath that shuddered out of her lungs, his hands wandering down her sides in warm, wide sweeps over the luxurious riot of violet fabric that yet concealed much of her from him.

A shift in the bed alerted him to Estinien moving, and when the Dragoon rose from the bed, bereft of clothing entirely and altogether too alert to have been asleep when they came in, he gave an amused huff against the skin beneath her ear. 

“‘Twould seem you’ve caught the attention of our resident Dragoon.” He mused in a voice all dark velvet, crushed against her earlobe with a nip of his teeth. 

Estinien snorted indignantly, even as he molded his hips to Serella’s backside. Even with a warning that he was approaching, she still gasped softly at the contact. Aymeric pulled back just enough to watch Estinien latch onto the side of her neck he had neglected, to drink in the way her gasp stoppered off at the contact. Estinien’s hands, warmed from dozing beneath the blankets, brushed over Aymeric’s as they both gripped at her hips. A pleased rumble vibrated from Estinien, through Serella, and Aymeric felt it settle in his own chest, inspiring his own sigh of bliss.

“Are you not thoroughly inebriated, Ser Estinien?” Serella asked coyly, even as the flush on her face spread down to her chest.

“Worried I’m too drunk to have my way with the lot of you?” He growled back between nips of his teeth on her neck.

“We _do_ have your virtue to consider.” Aymeric replied mildly.

 _“What_ virtue?” Estinien and Serella asked at the same time.

It was enough for him to break his feigned stoicism, and his forehead fell into the crook of Serella’s neck as he dissolved into giddy laughter. What could he do but revel in the joy that the two of them brought into his life, after all?

When he finally collected himself enough to straighten, a hand disentangled from Estinien’s hand at her hip to cup his face and brought his Ella in close with the other for an embrace.

“I love you both,” he sighed blissfully. “So very, very much.” 

“As we love you.” Serella promised, as ever, and kissed his cheek. 

“If you are _quite_ done.” Estinien whined, even as he leaned into Aymeric’s hand, even as he kissed his thumb when it swept over his pouting bottom lip. “I'm sobered up. And we _were_ in the middle of tearing her out of this dress, were we not?”

“And waste her hard work?” Aymeric asked, aghast, as he caught Estinien’s wrist when he reached to grab a fistful of her skirts. “Have some restraint.” When Estinien glowered, Aymeric’s stare hardened. _“Behave.”_

Though he still crinkled his nose at Aymeric, Estinien took to appeasing his want for destroying pretty things by pulling her hair ribbon loose with his teeth. Aymeric let go of his hand, satisfied. The pale blue strip of silk had not even hit the floor before he gathered her hair in his fist and those teeth were sunk into her neck in that way she so adored, hard enough to make her knees buckle, hard enough to _mar_ her and _mark_ her. 

When Estinien bent a knee and pressed his thigh between her legs, skirts and all, Serella’s hands flexed against the lapels of Aymeric’s coat, trembling with the effort to follow his command. The anchor of her grip and the breathy, pitched whines that shuddered out of her with every sharp gasp ignited his blood. When her whimpers turned shrill, Estinien’s jaw released her, his tongue laving over the mark he had left, already a purple so deep it matched her dress. It let her catch her breath, her chest heaving with desperate panting. It was all Aymeric could do to keep his hands steady, keep them gentle and not give in to his ache for her.

Still, they had danced with her like this before, and Aymeric excelled at leading.

The dress was held up by thick ribbons of fabric tied neatly at her shoulders that draped over her well toned arms, cloaking them without entirely hiding them. He had seen the flex and bow of her muscles as she had moved about the gathering, as she gestured and danced and made merry, the dress was designed to flow around her just enough to obfuscate without hiding every inch of her skin from him. _Deliberate_ design was ever her specialty, and her dress highlighted every deep bronze ilm of her that he sought to taste on his tongue all night.

Plucking at those ties took next to no effort, and gravity pulled the curtain back entirely. Beholding her as the royal purple fabric fell away was like drawing back the curtains and peering out at the night sky, umbral splendor dotted and lined with constellations of stories he had listened to her tell him time and again. 

“Oh,” he breathed, more a low exhalation of wonder than word. _“Look_ at you.” 

Hands moved almost of their own volition, as if in a dream, and found something solid and real and _his_ when he gripped at the searing heat of her bare hip. When her chest heaved with another gasp, he caught one of her breasts in his hand— Estinien palmed the other just as greedily. Where Estinien was content to massage and squeeze, Aymeric took a more dextrous approach, thumb rolling her nipple against his index finger and holding it until she quaked on Estinien’s thigh.

“No sense in ruining that lovely dress with your quim, my dear.” Aymeric groaned, and his voice had all but plummeted into a growling, deep register that he barely recognized as his own. 

By the Fury, he did not care.

At the tap of his foot against Estinien’s calf, the Dragoon’s thigh left her just enough to let loose the dress, now pooling to the floor in the space between them. He was quicker than Aymeric was prepared for, however, and pulled Serella flush against him, away from Aymeric.

“You’re too dressed.” Estinien practically snarled, eyes blown black for how his pupils encompassed them. They glinted like onyx at him. “No sense in ruining that handsome suit with your quim.”

“I—”

“Don’t want to miss out? Then be quick about it.”

Estinien tugged on Serella’s hair, still wrapped thrice around his fist, and nipped at the bruise he’d bitten into her neck.

 _“You…_ should go lie down.” He instructed her.

Aymeric turned away, trembling hands fumbling to undo buttons and clasps and kicking his shoes off, his own breath now a heavy pant. His blood ran as scorching fire through his veins, even as he watched them from the dresser mirror. Watched, as Serella all but wilted into the mattress, Estinien letting go of her hair to handle her into the position he wanted. Watched, as Estinien draped every naked ilm of himself against every naked ilm of _her._ Aymeric stopped breathing as if in as much anticipation for Estinien to take Serella as _she_ was.

Instead, he took her hips roughly in his hands, thrusting in long, languid strokes, slicking himself with her, only just grinding on her outer labia. When she whimpered again, he tutted.

“You wouldn’t want to start without Aymeric, would you?” He asked, all smug, toothy grin and hands pinning her in place.

A sob tore from Serella’s throat. A button tore from Aymeric’s vest.

For who was he to keep them waiting?


	11. Ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some nice friendship fic with Aymeric, Haurchefant, and Serella picking up some tea for a nice afternoon together. Then a noble showed up to try and curry favor with the Warrior of Light. Though a small detour, it's still one that at least made their errand interesting.

Would that there were more hours in the day, Aymeric might have had more time outside of his duties to do as he liked. Half a dozen different inspections, nearly _two_ dozen missives and orders to sign off on, and three meetings had filled his morning and the better part of the afternoon, and he felt every onze of energy he had spent press against his shoulders, attempting to force him out of his good posture in exhaustion. He refused to not march with a decisive spring in his step, however— his work concluded, he had invited Haurchefant and Serella over for tea and conversation, after all. It had been so long since he had hosted friends at his house, he could not help but be just a bit giddy at the notion of stopping at the Crozier to replenish his tea stock for their afternoon.

Haurchefant and Serella had provided lively conversation as they went, both insisting that he was no bother for stopping at the Crozier and that he could take his time perusing the shop. It was something of a comfort, simply enjoying an outing with people that he cared deeply for, and those who went out of their way to return that care in kind to him. Flanked by Serella leaned against the wall to one side, calmly reading her book (one of his recommendations, he noted with a thrill,) and Haurchefant close enough to his other side that they sometimes brushed when Haurchefant would move to gesture at a display or turn to speak with him, Aymeric could not help but be reminded of what it was to have family again, despite his best efforts to bury his heart.

“Ah, fancy meeting you here, Mistress Arcbane!” A tinny, raspy voice called.

From the edge of his vision, Aymeric watched Serella purse her lips from behind her book, hand subtly gripping it tighter. This must not be new, then, he mused sadly.

“Hoo boy.” Haurchefant whispered conspiratorially, practically pressed bodily against him, seemingly ignorant of the flush he inspired. “Her most persistent pursuer, though ‘tis no secret he vies only for prestige.”

Aymeric finished his order, and as they waited for the shopkeep to pour and measure the tea leaves, he and Haurchefant shifted some few steps to the pick-up counter. Haurchefant unabashedly and blatantly observed the encounter, despite Aymeric elbowing him in the ribs with a hiss to be respectful.

“Really, I owe you my humblest apologies.” Said the man— a lordling of House Durendaire, tall, handsome, and plush from a life free from struggle. “When last we tried to engage in conversation, I realized I was attempting to engage you on topics of discussion that were less interesting to an imprudent woman such as yourself!”

 _That_ inspired a flat, unimpressed look from over the edge of her book. While not one to let something so disrespectful lie, Aymeric felt Haurchefant’s hand on his elbow, and a glance in his direction earned him a brilliant smile and the mouthed word, _“Watch.”_ Turning his gaze back to the scene before them, it was hard not to see why his friend was so keen on waiting: the longer she silently stared down the man, the more he fidgeted to hide his discomfort.

“I _sincerely_ hope you just don’t know what that word means.” Serella replied coolly.

“Why, of course I do!” He enthusiastically doubled down, a beaming smile clearly hiding his newfound uncertainty. “I mean it as a compliment! I mean that you’re passionate and clever!”

“Of course you do.” Serella said in a tone saturated with pity, and returned to her book.

“What I mean, rather,” The noble stammered. “Is that we should not have spoken of Ishgardian history, but of swords!”

 _“…Swords.”_ She repeated slowly, testing the word as she turned a page.

“Oh, this poor sod.” Haurchefant muttered, voice strained with the effort of not laughing. “I think this might be the day. She might actually rob him of the will to live.”

“Indeed! Swords!” With a flourish, the man struck a pose to flaunt his sheathed blade. “What more common a ground could soldiers such as us have than to discuss our tools of war!”

Another glance from her pages, sharp, discerning, honed on his hands. Soft, bereft of calluses, and very clearly having never wielded the damned thing in any serious capacity. He was no soldier, that much was clear.

“An ultracrepidarian through and through, then.” Serella tutted, and flipped to the next page.

“Your words flatter me, my lady!” The nobleman beamed, a hand over his heart. “Are you even aware of your beauty and radiance?”

“Not at all, my lord. My Da forbade mirrors in the house, lest we be overcome with vanity.” She said in mock solemnity.

“Oh, _bless_ him.” Aymeric sighed under his breath, taking his order from the shopkeep and handing her his payment.

“I can’t _breathe.”_ Haurchefant hissed, hands wrapped around his middle in a desperate effort to hold himself together. “Merciful Halone, man, take the _hint—”_

“I would invite you to my abode! Formally! That we might discuss swords and swordplay!” The young man, bless his soul, actually produced a sealed envelope with her name writ in neat, swooping cursive. “And I would present you with a letter stating my formal intent to ask for your hand!”

“You’ll have to forgive me, my lord.” Serella said without looking up from her book. “I can’t read.”

Beside him, Haurchefant made a noise akin to an asthmatic cat.

“Wh—” Ah, _there_ it was. The first moment everything seemed to click into place for the man. His shoulders slumped slowly, his confidence deflating. “I…?”

“You’ll have to read your declaration aloud if you want a proper rejection.” With a sigh, she closed her book. “But please, I beg of you, for your own sake: _don’t.”_ Dropping her book in the deep, cavernous maw that was the inner pocket of her cloak, she turned expectantly toward the two of them, both of whom by that point had been openly _gawking_ at the exchange. “Are we all set? I’ve looked forward to this all week.”

She angled her head toward the door with a pleasant smile as though there was not a man standing across from her picking up the broken shards of his dignity. Aymeric was unsure of whether he wanted to ask her how often she had to let people down in such a manner.

“Aye, Mistress Arcbane.” He said in a teasing lilt, and collected the parcels of tea he purchased. “Shall we?”

The three of them stepped out of the shop together, Serella eagerly looping her arms around Aymeric’s and Haurchefant’s each in a friendly squeeze. They scarcely made it ten paces away from the shop before Haurchefant, at the end of his reserve of strength, broke down cackling. He didn’t stop even as Aymeric ushered them into his home with a goodnatured roll of his eyes.


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So *this* little piece is a smaller part of an AU I'm still fleshing out and working on in my spare time that I haven't posted just yet. In this AU, Aymeric, Estinien, and Haurchefant were all exposed to dragon's blood early in their knighthood at different times, but formed a close friendship as they worked to hide their transformation, realizing long before the events of Heavensward that nothing is as it seems in Ishgard but not truly being able to do much about it. In this AU, Haurchefant survives the Vault, but is outed as a "heretic" for transforming into a dragon to keep from dying, but with the truth of the Dragonsong War come to light, Ishgard is in the middle of taking a long, hard look at itself regarding its stance on those who have transformed. Special thanks to Holyja over on Tumblr for letting me incorporate their exquisite lizard gorl into my stories <3
> 
> I hope this sparks joy! \o/

For decades, Aymeric had managed to keep his exposure to dragon blood a secret. It had been painstaking, maneuvering around schedules and finding places he could roar into the heavens without fear of his own men trying to kill him, but it had been worth it. He had managed to use these abilities for the betterment of Ishgard, the preservation of his own sanity, and in some rare cases, had even managed to directly intervene to help a friend where he might not have otherwise been able to. Himself, Haurchefant, and Estinien had all maintained a closeness their shared secret made, looking out for one another and trying to keep one another safe. They had fought tooth and nail, fang and claw, in the name of their home and those they loved. It had been enough. They had _made_ it enough.

Now, though, staring down the shaft of his arrow, pointed at Estinien’s heart, he could only lament everything Nidhogg had stolen from them.

Haurchefant, outed to prevent himself from dying at the hands of the Heaven’s Ward, now in hiding as he healed. Estinien, robbed of his body and his life to resurrect his blood enemy. It bordered on bad comedy, this tragedy that had befallen them. As the pieces fell, one by one, Aymeric had wondered when it would be his turn.

Nidhogg turned Estinien’s head toward the crowd, and for a moment, Aymeric’ eyes darted to see what he was so fascinated by. When he realized the crowds were being ushered away, and that Hyana and Serella were some of the few that remained, his blood ran cold.

“Dost thou suspect they would still accept thee, if they knew the truth?” Estinien’s voice rumbled in an unnaturally low register. Too low for the man himself to speak in. “Are their lives worth exchanging for thine continued secrecy?”

 _No, they are not_ , Aymeric thought immediately. They never had been. They never would be.

With a terrible roar, Nidhogg leapt in the air, and Estinien’s body gave way to the great wyrm’s in a wave of dark, sinister aether that rippled along Aymeric's spine. Already, he could feel his fangs press against his bottom lip. Nidhogg's wings spread out until they eclipsed the sun and cast a shadow over all of Falcon’s Nest, and the great wyrm prepared to dive.

Aymeric snapped his head back to the rapidly dispersing crowd. Despite having an arm yet in a sling, Hyana bore her spear in one hand, still prepared to fight. Ignoring her own grievous wounds and wear, arm still so heavily bandaged she had to jam it into her shield brace, Serella was no less ready for battle, sword drawn and shield up. They would not flee. Even should he beg, they would sooner die. He would sooner be executed as a heretic before he let it happen.

Aymeric felt his body shatter and reform itself even before Nidhogg had begun to descend.

This body that was and was not his was much broader, stronger, and though he was nowhere near Nidhogg’s scale, nowhere near the strength of a great wyrm, he _was_ faster. With a mighty leap, he pumped his wings to pick up speed as he caught Nidhogg by the neck with his teeth, squeezed with everything he had, and used what momentum he had built with the mad dash to intercept him to throw the both of them over Falcon’s Nest and into the snow. He heard the startled shouts of the people, the panicked cries and the calls to rally from the knights, though they were distant now. Whether they focused fire on both of the dragons that now prepared to fight in the snows or not mattered little to him as he watched Nidhogg stagger back onto his clawed feet, wings flaring out to kick off what snow clung to him from the impact.

Aymeric would always fight to protect Ishgard, and the people he loved. Tooth and nail, fang and claw, even if they all condemned him for what he had become in the process.


	13. Stalemate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning point, following an investigation Aymeric was forced to make into Serella's actions as a Dark Knight...which I promise I will still write in their main fic verse. They will recover from it, but this is the thick of that recovery, and as such, is particularly messy. I hope this comes across as hopeful and not just an angst fest.

It had been a long road to being comfortable with affection—with not feeling guilt for _wanting_ to be touched. A long road wherein victories had taken the form of hands reaching out even in the light to find warmth and affection—and receiving it gladly. It took the form of feeling more comfortable with asking, with words and without, to hold and be held. It took the form of idle, almost mindless gestures of affection: a kiss to the forehead, leaning into a peck on the cheek, meeting in the middle to bump noses together. It had been a road slowly but sweetly traveled with a thousand little victories along the way.

Perhaps that was why Serella’s distance hurt him so.

Aymeric could not fault her for it: with the investigation into her actions as a Dark Knight, they had been…quick to distance themselves. Quick enough that he felt shame for it even as he had chosen to do it, understood that even if it was too quick for his personal liking, it was not quick enough where duty was concerned.

With the allegations that had been laid against her; with the accusation that she had kidnapped a child and murdered Temple Knights, clergy, and civilians…there was naught to be done for it. With a zeal normally saved for the battlefield they hunted the truth—and Aymeric was reminded of his more ruthless tendencies, how quickly his heart could frost over when it was not carefully nurtured with warm, gentle hands to hold it. As was Serella.

When the investigation concluded, Aymeric had not been so foolish as to think she would simply pretend naught had happened, and all would be well between them. He had resigned himself to the fact that their relationship had been lost the moment the investigation had begun. He had nearly _wept_ right then and there when she gave him back the spare key to her house— and she had she said that she still wished to be with him, if only he gave her time to process all that had happened.

So he did. Despite the ache in his chest and how desperately he wanted to talk about what had happened— because they had never _not_ discussed things that upset them in the past— he let the words burn in his throat rather than give voice to them. He offered his hand for touch and comfort before _actually_ reaching out to touch her now.

And Serella…did not accept it. Not once.

That it was _Serella_ that spurned all touch and comfort and physical contact would have beggared belief before all of this.

Still, to say she “spurned,” him was unfair; she still made the time to see him, and they continued to work on things, however tentatively. He swore to her that he would be patient—for as long as it took for her to heal he would respect her space and her boundaries. Fury knew she had been doing the same with him for so much longer. He knew she was not withholding affection as a punishment—she was no one to do so. She simply did not like being touched right now. He understood that, respected that, and he felt a little more awful every time he would thoughtlessly seek her comfort. He had not realized she had helped him form the habit until he was made to break it.

Still…they had established such a subconscious system of touch and comfort when they were in private that he sometimes would forget to…switch it off. He would reach for her without thinking, and his heart would break a little more when she would tense and tell him that she did not want to be touched.

He knew she was not withholding affection as a punishment—she was no one to do so. She simply did not like being touched right now. He understood that, _respected_ that, and he felt a little more awful every time he would thoughtlessly seek her comfort. He had not realized she had helped him form the habit until he was made to break it.

Tonight, blessedly, was a night he was more aware of it, hands curled tightly around his mug as they were. Serella had invited him over for dinner—and he had leapt at the chance to spend time alone together. That the investigation was nearing a month and some days past, he was hoping she would feel more comfortable speaking on it, at least a little; he wanted to be there for her however he could, and he wanted to help them both heal through what was easily the hardest thing they had ever had to go through.

Serella asked after his health, how things in the Houses had been going, whether that restoration bill the House of Commons wanted to introduce was passed yet. _Safe_ topics to discuss.

Aymeric had answered her readily, glad to at least be speaking candidly with her again. It was good that they spoke while she was milling about in the kitchen; her busying herself was as good a reason as any for a lack of affection, and he latched onto it so it hurt less when she did not gently touch his shoulder or play with his hair in between prepping for dinner. It meant he would not reach for her in kind, would not offer her kisses and reassuring touches.

“How have you fared on the road?” He asked her when she began to pull out some fresh vegetables from the garden to chop.

“Well enough.” Her answer, while not clipped or curt, was brief enough that Aymeric was still startled for it, so used to her happily elaborating on places she had been and things she had done.

With her back to him he could not divine her tone, but something about it registered as _tepid._ His stomach twisted into knots.

“I am relieved!” he said, perhaps with a laugh too bright to be seen as genuine. “And what sort of adventures did you have while you were away?”

Perhaps his cheerfulness was too false— or perhaps his desperation for connection made it worse. Serella stilled. The rhythmic _shh-tock_ of her knife chopping vegetables and clacking against the cutting board stopped abruptly enough that he flinched at the silence. It only lasted a heartbeat or two— but it felt like a lifetime before she answered.

“Little of import, I’m afraid.” Serella finally said, and resumed chopping.

And that, _that,_ of all things should not have been what hurt Aymeric the most. It should not have been the thing that made his throat close and his eyes sting. But it _was,_ and he cursed himself for it, even as he took a few moments to compose himself before he chanced broaching the subject.

“Ella?” He called quietly when he felt fairly sure his voice would not crack. He had been wrong.

The chopping stopped again but she did not face him. He had not called her that since before the investigation. He had not thought it would be welcome, and seeing the way she stilled, he feared he was right.

“Yes?” She gently prompted when he had not said anything more.

“Might we talk?” He asked. “It need not be about… _everything,_ but...” he looked down into his tea. “...I miss you.”

Silence hung heavy over them, and Aymeric cursed the fact that he had said anything at all; she had invited him to try and reach out, and here he was already asking more of her.

“I want to talk about what happened.” She said, and he heard her knife faintly clatter when she carefully set it down. “I just…I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me how you feel?” He asked, and hoped it did not come across as the begging he was ready to be reduced to. “I want to wo—“

“Work through it together?” She cut him off bitterly, and _then_ she spared him a flat, tired glare from over her shoulder. He fought the urge to shrink. “If you wanted that, this whole mess should have _started_ that way.”

As he feared it would, frustration flared in his chest. Because _yes,_ he would have rather done it differently, and _yes,_ he regretted it came to what it did at all, but that did not change that it had _needed_ to happen. He was not allowed to be sorry that he had done it, even if he _was_ sorry all the same, in his heart of hearts. He tamped down _hard_ on that frustration, knowing it would do neither of them any good.

“We could not work with you on the investigation,” Aymeric tried to explain, for what he felt like was the hundredth time. “We _had_ to uncover what happened without your involvement—“

“I…I know.” She sighed, and her shoulders slumped. _“That’s_ why I haven’t said much. I’m… _angry_ and hurt. I don’t really know what to do with that.”

“Your feelings are _important_ to me— and I know that I have hurt you.” He let go of his teacup—he had gleaned what warmth he could from it— and rose from his seat. “I want to try and make amends, though...I have not wanted to pressure you into doing so.”

An answer was not immediately forthcoming; she was moving what vegetables she had already chopped into the pan, and had begun to sizzle loudly in the tab of garlic butter she had been melting. With that accomplished, she stirred the stock she had bubbling in a pot beside it. He did not move closer, and kept the bar counter between them. When the pan quieted and she spoke up again, her voice came out soft. _Tired._

“You did what you had to. I can’t fault you for it.” Serella said haltingly. She kept her focus on the pan. “On the contrary, I’m _proud_ of you for doing it. I’m gl—” At the crack in her voice, she winced, and tried again. “...I’m _glad_...that you’ll never love me more than doing what is right.”

_No, you are not. And neither am I._ Aymeric thought, and winced despite himself.

“...Was that why you never told me?” He asked quietly after the silence grew too uncomfortable.

“In part. Mostly, I wanted to protect Rielle and her Guardian. I still do. I also didn’t want to implicate you in anything. If that blade was to fall on my head, then it would fall on my head alone.”

“Even if that blade was forced to be _mine?”_ He asked before he could stop himself.

The silence stretched on, and on, and _on,_ enough that he wanted to try to say _anything,_ if only to try to combat the tension. Already, he wished he could take back the entire conversation. He had already long prayed he would wake up, and all this would have been a horrible dream, that she had never done what she did and he had never had to respond to it at all and they could just _be._ She deserved none of this, he knew, but then, nor did _he._

“...If there was anyone I would trust to know when I was beyond saving, and would kill me to protect the innocent...it would be you.” Serella said softly, and when she turned to look at him again, her eyes shone with tears. “It’s one of the many, many reasons I love you so. Even as it destroys me to put that burden on you.”

“I—”

What could he say? If she had been a threat, if all his searching for the truth had led to him finding out that she truly was capable of murdering innocents for no reason than because they were in her way, then _yes,_ as much as he pained him, he _would_ have been the one to sign her death warrant. He _would_ have been the one to execute her, or imprison her, depending on the Alliance’s demands of her fate.

“I cannot apologize for it. The investigation, I mean. But for how it has hurt you, and how it has affected us, and the burdens we have both been made to bear... _that,_ I am truly sorry for.” He said, and it sounded insufficient to him.

“I know. That’s all I can ask for.”

Aymeric had always known, deep down, that so long as he held an office of any power, even if Serella had laid her blade down and never touched it again, that the two of them could never truly just _be._ There would ever be duty and obligation and that extra bit of _distance_ that would need to be between them because of it all. So it would be for anyone he courted, but all the more, in particular, where he was courting a Warrior of Light.

He had tried not to think on it. He had tried not to notice it. But this investigation dragged that little truth to the forefront of his mind— and he wondered if she had always known that it was there.

What a peculiar stalemate to find himself in, loving her more and more every day, all the while knowing he could not truly be _closer_ for his duties.

_Need it be so?_ A part of him wondered. He had no answer for that.

“Can we ever move on from this?” He asked in a bitter moment of helplessness.

_“That_ I’m confident in.” Serella replied, her tone ever so slightly lighter, lips quirked ever so slightly into a smile. “We’ve weathered storms before— and we’re already better for talking about it.”

He had not realized how much of him had needed to hear that affirmation from her. He let out a shuddering sigh as he sank back into his seat and ran a hand through his hair..

“I pray you are right.” He whispered.

From the stove, they heard the telltale _hiss_ of a pot boiling over, and Serella had to attend it before they could speak further. When he bolted up to try and help, she waved him back to his seat— she was already right there. No less dismayed, he sat back down and took to pouring himself another cup of tea— and leaning across the way to top off Serella’s. Though she caught his eye from over her shoulder as he did, and she smiled, she did not comment on it.

When the pot quieted, Serella turned to put away the dishes from her prep work, and the silence that ensued was a peculiar one, the sort that left a vague nausea in the pit of his stomach he used to feel as a child, back when he would hide in his room as the Borels had a rare but particularly bad row. It had been years since he had last felt it, and he misliked it immensely. He misliked it all the more, knowing that she was making such a concerted effort to reassure him, as if that were _her_ burden. How could he articulate that it was not, and that he did not feel it was at all?

Her teacup clattering softly against the wood of the counter, not far from him, drew his attention. He looked up in time to see her sit down on the opposite side of the counter, and when she smiled at him that time, it looked natural. _Almost_ at ease.

“Did I tell you about the shrines all along the roads in Yangxia?” She asked quietly as she stretched her arm over the space between them, palm upturned in invitation.

Just like that, the nausea faded away. Such a simple question was not enough to heal them. It wasn’t a sign that all was well. It wasn’t even enough to entirely convince him that they ever would be again. But it was enough to show him that they were healing. That they were making the conscious effort, together, to heal.

Eyes wet with tears, Aymeric sniffled, and took a moment to set his cup down and dry them with the back of his hand. The hand not scrubbing at his eyes reached out to hold hers as he gave his soft answer of, “You did not. But I would love to hear all about them.”


	14. Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 3.3, Aymeric sneaks out of duties in the wee hours of the morning to check on the people he loves most in the world. While Estinien is still too out of it to receive guests, Serella is painfully, stubbornly clinging to a sense of normalcy that she fears will never come back. The two of them have a heart to heart

It took longer than he might have liked, and more schedule twisting than should be considered reasonable, but a sennight after he had carried Estinien, quite literally, to the chirurgeon’s ward, Aymeric was finally able to steal a moment away in the wee hours of the morning to visit him. 

It wasn’t for long— even if Estinien had been more awake, Aymeric had wanted to check in on the others, too— but it was long enough to take a seat at his bedside. Long enough for the Dragoon to blearily open his eyes, briefly, and ask in a rasp if he might stay until he could fall asleep again. Long enough to gently run a hand over top of his head until the wounded man had, at last, drifted off again. He lacked Serella’s ability to use magic to help someone sleep, but he did have enough gentleness in him to offer comfort just as tangible. 

When he had waited as long as he could, drank in Estinien’s presence as much as he thought was safe without disturbing him, Aymeric stole away from the room. Every step out toward the hallway made him progressively more grateful he had not worn his armor, and once he had safely shut the door behind him, notified the chirurgeons that Estinien was yet asleep. Content that he had at least checked in on his friend, he moved further downstairs. 

The door to Serella’s room was ajar, and from beyond it, he could hear muffled cursing and hisses of pain. Heart in his throat, he quickened his steps and scarcely announced himself before stepping inside, fearful she had injured herself or was in need of help.

An eye of sapphire met his through the curtain of her raven hair, strewn about in several different directions, in a wild tangle of locks and knots. Were her hair not obscuring half her face, he would have otherwise had a perfect view of her face.

“Forgive my intrusion,” He stammered, moving hesitantly into the room. “I heard you cry out in pain and feared the worst.”

“Can’t blame you. ’m just being stupid, I know it.”

Serella blew a huff of air into her bangs, limply dangling in a mess in front of her face. His eyes were drawn to the hand not bandaged and wrapped in a sling awkwardly attempting to disentangle from a bit of hair that looked to be in a failed attempt at styling her hair, but _how_ she had attempted it was lost amid the tangles.

“Pray, let me help.”

He was at her side before he had even realized he had moved at all, hands disentangling her fingers with care. Though she flushed at the contact (no gloves on either of them, _oh,_ would the clergywoman who had ran their Scholasticate teachings be positively _scandalized_ at the notion,) she averted her gaze with a flushed smile.

“I was-” Serella was strangely skittish, her good hand gesturing in the scant space between them. “-I was attempting to braid my hair.”

“With only one hand? On the amount of pain medication they’re giving you?”

“’ve had worse plans th’ turned out better.” She replied almost defensively. “Just. Want normal again.”

Any teasing quirk to his lips vanished at the half whispered confession. He’d expected it was out of stubbornness and insisting she was fine that she had done it, and while he had technically been right, he had not realized there was, underneath it all, a prevailing fear that she no longer _could._

“Temporary though your injuries are, I’m confident that you could learn how to braid one handed, if pressed.”

She swayed in place, and his hands steadied her a moment before guiding her back to her bed. She sat down with a mumbled word of thanks.

Aymeric’s eyes scoured the side dresser and small sink area for a brush, hair tie, and ribbon, though once he had found what he was looking for (a blue ribbon had no business thrilling him the way that it did, but he rather liked the color, all the more on _her,)_ and brought them back to her bedside.

“But if you are amenable, I would be willing to help. If for naught else, to rid you of tangles.”

“You’re terribly busy, Aymeric. I couldn’t possibly trouble you-” Serella tried to deflect when he held up a hand.

“You are correct. You could not possibly trouble me. Now, then,” He held up the brush, asking again, “If you are amenable, may I?”

If she flushed any deeper he might worry for her fever, though she swallowed and nodded, wordlessly turning her head to give him the back of it. Breathing a sigh of relief, he sat in the chair beside her bed and set to work gathering her hair behind her and grasping it nearer to the base. With a murmured warning, he began to brush through her hair, mindful of the knots and tangles, spending extra time ensuring that snagging them to smooth them out did not hurt her.

Ere long, the brush practically glided with each run through her hair. Satisfied that it was adequately free of tangles and hearing her satisfied little hums of pleasure in his ears, he hesitated when it came time to part off her hair.

“Is it alright if I try a different braid than the one you normally wear?”

“Trust you.” Serella shrugged her good shoulder.

Permission thus obtained, he divided her long, voluminous locks into three parts, and started his braid fairly high up, at the base of her neck. Despite the years it had been since he had last done it, the muscle memory had been engrained in his hands, and he scarcely had to think on their movements.

“Feels like you’ve done this a lot.” Serella spoke up quietly.

“I had several friends growing up that were keen on having their braids maintained.” Aymeric chuckled. “And Maman- _Lady Borel-_ had needed the help with it in her later years.”

His voice grew soft in remembrance, a smile playing on his face. “I used to find great joy in spending time together when she would teach me all manner of hairstyles.”

“She sounds lovely.”

Even without being able to see her face, he could hear the smile in her voice. 

“She was,” He agreed quietly. “Ah, if you might allow me-”

As the braid began to take form, he gently reached around to take her chin in hand and carefully guide her into looking straight ahead, to his right.

“Perfect.” He resumed braiding her hair.

Knowing the motion his hands needed to make made it easier to watch Serella’s expression shift to curiosity when she saw her hair, neatly braided, beginning to cascade over her shoulder, rather than straight down her back. He kept his hands far enough away from her that they did not brush her inappropriately, though the way _she_ was watching his fingers move certainly made him _feel_ as though he were doing something positively lascivious. 

As he suspected, the end of the braid ended just below her bust, within reach of her hand yet caught in a sling. Tying it off, he studied his handiwork. 

“This should be easier for you to redo on your own for now.” Aymeric noted when he felt her stare on him, silently questioning. “Though if it still gives you trouble, pray let me know- there are a myriad of other types we may yet try that could help-”

“You don’t have to.” Serella spoke up suddenly.

He looked at her then, at the way she was flushed from more than just the closeness. Guilt flickered in those pain clouded eyes. 

“Correct again.” He noted. It was then that she looked at him, eyes wide. “I do not have to. I _want_ to. Though- in the interest of confessing to mine own guilt, I am not above admitting that I wanted to use a longer braid for my own use.”

“What use?”

“I wanted to do something that would take more time.” He admitted sheepishly, avoiding her gaze with tying the dark blue ribbon around the hair tie. “I could not bear to part with you so soon.”

“I see.” She smiled at him when he braved another glance at her. “I’m…I’m glad.”

“And _I_ am glad for your choice in ribbon. Blue is a lovely color on you.”

“I’d wear it even ‘f it wasn’t.” She admitted. “Reminds me of you.”

Inevitably, he was made to- the chirurgeons ushered him out before he could make more of a fool of himself. Despite not wishing to leave her side, he could concede that it was, perhaps, for the best, lest he break his promise and confess all to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What promise is he referring to? Excellent question! Their main verse covers that, I just haven't quite cross posted that part to AO3 yet, but you can find all of my works over on tumblr! https://stars-bleed-hearts-shine.tumblr.com/   
> Always feel free to poke around over there or say hi! o/


	15. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This sort of sprinted away from me at a break neck pace, and rapidly devolved into an exploration of Estinien's entire character and how he thinks/feels throughout this whole polycule, but I hope it sparks joy all the same! Mild spoilers for his whereabouts/a Tales from the Shadows story regarding him, but it doesn't involve the MSQ too much beyond what happens in Heavensward!

When Estinien had no one save for himself to worry about, a part of him hated that he had thought it so much easier. 

The intrusive thought crossed his mind more often than he might have liked, following the destruction of Ferndale. Even as an angry, despondent youth, he could recognize that it was nothing but the guilt and the grief speaking in those moments, in particular because of the roiling nausea that followed that thought. It always devolved into a spiral of, _“That’s not true, I would give anything to have them back, I miss them, I miss them,”_ until it was all he could do to curl up on the bed Ser Alberic had given him, tasting iron when he bit his lip hard enough to bleed to keep himself from sobbing.

Little wonder he had been so desperate to leap, headlong, into honing himself into joining the ranks of the Dragoons. The training regime had been less of an educational experience and more of a hazing, but Estinien had embraced it, glad to have the intrusive thoughts beaten out of him, glad to forget what it was to feel.

…Mostly.

Damnable charmer as one of his fellow knights had been— _Aymeric,_ he remembered the name. How could he not? The man had insisted he remember as adequate thanks for saving his life. Estinien had hoped, in vain, that a tankard of ale would have been enough to pay that debt, and _allegedly,_ it was, and yet, the knight continued to find him in the city. Often with an _excuse,_ “The baker gave me an extra sweet bread— how curious. Would you like the other?” Or, “Ah! You’re headed to the Pillars, same as I, come! Let us walk together!”

At some point, infuriatingly, Estinien had taken to _looking_ for him. Taken to _making_ their paths intersect at every turn, even as he had reminded himself that it was folly to even entertain the notion of friendship with anyone, let alone someone who looked at him with such a vibrant gleam in his eyes. Even as he had hated that he had begun to care for Aymeric, he found himself drawn in, further and further, until he could not imagine being without.

It was something of a tragedy that Aymeric was born a bastard: he tended to draw people so naturally to him, though Ishgard’s hostility for aught but the “good stock” of man demanded that the knight would know only loneliness, unless he curbed his enthusiasm. Undeterred, Aymeric simply befriended others in his circumstance, and before Estinien had known what had even happened, one Lord Haurchefant was brought into the fold of their friend circle.

Another annoyingly charming bastard. Estinien was beginning to feel the odd one out. It was an odd comfort, that feeling; it meant, to him, that should his knack for survival abandon him, he would not be missed. He clung to that reassurance; it made bearing friendship easier as he worked to join the Dragoons. 

On the night he had earned his Drachenmail, Aymeric had insisted on celebrating— and, _“No, sod off,”_ was only met with the knight holding his hand tighter as he was forcibly brought to the Forgotten Knight. 

Much as Estinien had tried to feign annoyance…a part of him long since frozen over ached with warmth at being flanked by Aymeric and Haurchefant, eagerly passing him a flagon of ale and slinging an arm around his shoulders, genuinely _happy_ for him. People who _loved_ him, if he were honest enough with himself to admit that.

Eventually, he cited a need for air, and stepped out into the warm breeze of the evening.

His head swam, and he wished it was just from the ale. He hadn’t drank nearly enough to feel its effects, and yet, he felt intoxicated all the same. An ache pulsed in his chest, hard enough that his head was beginning to pound. Pressing his palms to his eyelids, he sucked in a breath through his teeth and spat a curse on the exhale that shuddered out of his lungs.

He heard footsteps approach— heavier, sure, slightly off-rhythm from inebriation. _Haurchefant_ , he realized without looking up. The heavy sigh that accompanied the sound of the knight joining him at the wall confirmed it.

“Too much?” Haurchefant guessed, just vague enough to effectively corner Estinien into a more specific answer, damn the bastard.

“Needed to think.” Estinien growled, finally lowering his hands and opening his eyes. 

He wished he hadn’t, looking at Haurchefant. Kindly and jovial though he might be most of the time, Estinien would be remiss to dismiss him as a jolly fool. He knew him better than that.

“Ah, too much of us, then.” Haurchefant said with a sagely nod.

Estinien said nothing. He didn’t know _what_ to say.

“He loves you, you know.”

Estinien said nothing. He knew.

“He all but begged me not to say anything, but I daresay he’s fairly obvious, isn’t he?” Haurchefant laughed brightly. “But then, I love the both of you, so I suppose you’re both just as obvious as you are dear to me.”

“Get to the point.” Estinien growled, nausea roiling in his gut.

“We both love you. So let us. It’s not a crime to, and ‘tis most clear that you _want_ to be loved. Halone knows you’ve let the both of us into your bed enough—”

He wanted to say _no, that’s different,_ but he couldn’t bring himself to lie like that. Not to any of them, least of all himself. Keeping them at arm’s length, even as he _had_ sought them out, or dragged them _in,_ time and again, had made it easier, he had thought. If he could find it in himself to be honest, through the ache of a heart reluctant to thaw, he could admit that he loved them both, too.

But that was vulnerability. That was something to lose.

What he might or might not have felt stopped mattering a long time ago. It stopped mattering when he was barely more than ten summers old. A part of him died in Ferndale, and he’d be damned if he let anyone resurrect it while he continued to chase his revenge.

“Enough.” Estinien staggered away, hands pushing Haurchefant away from him. _“Enough!”_

Aymeric was talking now, calling out from the doorway of the Forgotten Knight wondering if they were quite alright, and Estinien’s stomach lurched again. He ran off into the night before either of them could fully stop him, before they could slow him down from his descent to hell, could make him want to survive the way he stubbornly continued to.

Estinien would survive without them. He had a real talent for surviving, whether he willed it or not.

* * *

“Azure Dragoon.” Aymeric purred against his jaw, body flexed and bowed around him. “It suits you.”

“I’m sure _you_ think that.” Estinien grumbled, though couldn’t quite smother a half smile when he was kissed.

He had tried. Tried to keep them away, for good, tried to chase them off with barbs and lashes and anger. He had thought Aymeric and Haurchefant would leave him alone, as he wanted, as he feared, as he deserved. He had underestimated their stubbornness, however. _Stupid,_ he had called himself at every moment of weakness he had found with the two of them, or either of them, or alone to thoughts of them. _Stupid, weak, distracted—_

“Of course I do.” Aymeric broke his train of thought, lips and teeth tracking along his collar bone. “I think the world of you.”

“And I think _you_ a fool,” Estinien snapped, words lacking venom despite his best efforts.

Aymeric laughed, even knowing it was no joke to Estinien.

Fools, the lot of them. Estinien for never committing to either clutching close or letting go, Aymeric for never giving him an out, Haurchefant for never _not_ being effusive in his love. 

When Aymeric ascended to the rank of Lord Commander and Haurchefant was promoted to Captain of one of the garrisons out of town, Estinien was glad for the distance. Surely, it would be enough to rid him of the ache.

It was not.

* * *

There were few things that angered Estinien more in this world than someone meeting his stubbornness with their own. All the more if they shared his complete disregard for tact and diplomacy, refreshing even as he might have found it in any other circumstance that didn’t involve someone being a contrarian _arse_ with _him_ specifically. 

And fewer people excelled at it quite as well as Hyana Geriel. 

In retrospect, he should have expected that he would fall for her, with the way that the two of them, Azure Dragoons both, had each viewed one another as infuriatingly attractive, familiar, _achingly_ familiar reflections of one another in personality, temperament, and personal beliefs. Getting to know her, in turn, made him better understand himself, and he supposed he had little recourse but to lash out at that.

Worse still when he realized that despite how much she reminded him of himself, he loved her more and more the longer he had come to know her.

Not that anyone who didn’t know him would think that, watching them scream themselves hoarse at one another. It had hit that special point in the argument where he couldn’t necessarily recall the _why_ of them arguing, only that he didn’t want _her_ to win.

“This is getting us nowhere, and you do little but waste my time, Wyrmblood!” Hyana cried, throwing a hand dismissively in the air as she stormed out of the Congregation. “Feel free to sit on that pike of yours, _I’m_ going to do something _productive_ with my fucking time!”

“Bold of you to imply aught _you_ do is productive, Geriel!” Estinien roared at her rapidly retreating back.

He stood there, fuming hot enough he swore steam rose off of him in the cold air, chest heaving, knuckles white with the grip of his fists at his sides. In a desperate bid to prevent himself from lopping off the head of the next person who spoke to him, he attempted to take a deep, calming breath, and let it out slow enough to count backwards from ten.

When he hit three, Aymeric spoke up, voice dripping with amusement, “And here I thought you were not one for exhibitionism, Ser Estinien.”

Without missing a beat, Haurchefant cooed, “Indeed! _Quite_ the foreplay the two of you have going. Positively _charged_. When did the two of you begin courting?”

Well. Estinien just might take a life today regardless. Maybe two, even.

“Shut it, both of you.” He growled on the last of his exhale, more of an exasperated wheeze than anything. He turned a baleful glare toward Haurchefant in particular. “Aren’t _you_ courting her? Officially?”

“Oh, certainly, but she has _two_ hands, my good man.” The knight held up two fingers as though he had made a valid point.

Infuriatingly, the Lord Commander _agreed._

“Bastards, the both of you.” Estinien spat.

“Does he think this news to us?” Haurchefant asked in an exaggerated stage whisper.

“For how often he reminds us, I fear he worries for our long term memory.” Aymeric replied, tone mockingly grave.

Throwing a rude gesture over his shoulder, Estinien stomped out in search of fresh air.

He had hoped the anger and the frustration would burn away the ache, would char the love he held for now _three_ people, _three_ too many.

It did not. He ached all the more.

* * *

By sheer force of unrelenting, unresolved tension, Estinien had begun some strange sort of… _arrangement_ with Hyana. Not courtship— heaven _forfend,_ that would imply _commitment—_ and he had thought it would at least distract him from how he had loved Haurchefant and Aymeric.

When the Lord Commander had begun to take a shine to the other Warrior of Light in their merry band of misfits, Estinien had made a concerted effort to hate her.

It should have been easy to. Serella Arcbane was all smiles and jokes and springtime smiles, the very picture of a Paladin that had most assuredly never known suffering. Painting her in unflattering, manic pastels had made it easy to dismiss her outright.

And then he was made to travel with her. To the Dravanian Forelands, with Iceheart, the arrogant boy, and the Walking Complication that was Hyana Geriel.

They had needed to take stock of medicinal herbs and remedies before they continued their journey north to Alabathia’s Spine. A necessity he had reluctantly agreed to with minimal grumbling. Lacking the ability to spot what herbs were which, he had elected to join Serella in her gathering when she had been more amenable to showing him which ones he should be picking.

“Admittedly, they’re a lot like the ones that used to grow by my village.” She chirped brightly, plucking another purple flower to add to her pack. “So I’m at a bit of an advantage.”

He grunted. “I’m sure they’re pleased to know you’re well following the banquet.”

“Ah, they’re…all dead. Murdered.”

Even the breeze seemed to still in the wake of her quiet admittance. He couldn’t hide his shock; of the lot of the Warriors of Light, she and her brother had seemed the least maladjusted of the group.

“Forgive me, I did not know.” He said quietly, humbled.

“I try not to talk about it much. Few would understand having their village destroyed by some godlike power you barely understand.” Serella mused, plucking another flower, stem and all.

“You would be surprised.” He murmured.

He tried to keep his uncomfortable shifting subtle, but in full drachenmail that proved an impossible task. Her one emerald eye shifted to him in a sidelong glance, and though he was armed and armored from head to toe, he felt bare under her scrutiny. He misliked that immensely.

“Truth be told, having my story be a familiar nightmare to those in Ishgard is a strange comfort.” She admitted, rising with a sigh. “I feel less alone for it, though it wasn’t dragons that took my home.”

“What was it?”

“The Twelveswood. We’d invoked Greenwrath for helping refugees it didn’t like.” She shrugged. “I’ve never understood kindness being punished. I hate that there’s some strange power out there that likes to decide who deserves softness.”

“Is that why you’re always walking like you’ve got sunshine coming out your arse?” Estinien groused before he could stop himself.

Serella threw her head back and laughed, and it startled him how pleasant he found it. Her smile, all gleaming teeth and scars stretched in genuine glee, inspired a strange warmth in him. For a moment, he understood what drew Aymeric to her so.

“Always been a bit of a rebel, me. Some uppity god wants to decide who gets to know gentleness? Well, I’ll just be gentle to everyone. If they don’t like it, I’ll fight ‘em.”

“Isn’t it easier to keep what you have close to you, and damn the rest?”

“What, like a dragon broods over its hoard? Perhaps. But then, I’m just stuck with my own misery, and where’s the fun in that?”

“There’s an insult directed at me in there, somewhere.” He groused. “I can tell.”

“Good Ser, you wound me!” She gasped, a hand over her heart. 

“Not yet, I haven’t.” Crossing his arms, he looked out over the fields of wildflowers, where Iceheart and Hyana were conversing and plucking at the herbs.

“I assure you, Ser Estinien, that you cannot harm me in a way that matters.” Her smile suddenly resembled broken glass. “But you know that feeling, too, yeah?”

They lapsed into silence, Serella returning to the herbs, and Estinien to his swirling, reeling thoughts.

For a mercy, he was slow to warm to anyone, and that included this one. But he knew the signs of the thaw. That ache in his chest.

Oh no. _Oh no._ Not _her,_ too.

* * *

Estinien fled before he could begin to process anything he had felt, and had thought, at the time, it was for the best.

Barely recovered from the physical wounds he had suffered, they ached enough to swallow the soreness deeper than muscle that yet throbbed in his chest, weighed down by everything he had denied himself for so long. 

Of all the people he knew he loved. Aymeric, Haurchefant, Hyana, and Serella. All infuriatingly occupying a piece of him he knew he would never get back. One because he was long buried, the others from their infuriating, inscrutable charm.

Maybe Ysayle had been among them, too. He couldn’t even begin to unpack how he felt for her, beyond the remorse that he would never get to explore that with her at all.

So he ran, and he ran, and when the threat of combat loomed overhead he ran further still, to distant shores. Eventually the contract work dried up, and his tab at the Hostelry grew heavy enough he took to working within it to pay it off. It was hard work, but it left him tired enough to sleep with few dreams, at least.

And he did not lack for company entirely: Orn Khai was with him, the little dragonling a merry friend to have on his day to day routine. He had tried to make that enough. For a while, he had convinced himself it was.

Then a fragment of his heart swept into Kugane, all mismatched eyes and springtime smile, and he couldn’t even think to jump away before her hand was in his, asking after his well being.

In the hopes it would get Serella to leave (and never, _ever_ see the state he had let himself fall into,) he offered half truths and non-committal answers. With each one, her smile dimmed. Watching it felt like fall approaching in fast forward, until all that was left was a gloomy frown on her face.

“You’re a poor liar.” She finally said around a sigh.

Before Estinien had even thought of what to say, she moved to the counter and spoke with the Madam that ran the establishment. Dread lined his gut as he watched her hand a sizable amount of gil over and shake hands with the owner.

“Debt’s been paid.” Serella said when she walked back to him, hands stuffed in her pockets as though she were casually discussing the weather.

Feeling very much like a cornered animal, Estinien growled, “I am _not_ going to go back merely because you bought me out, Arcbane.”

A wince was all that gave it away, but he realized a moment too late that he had, in fact, hurt her in a way that mattered.

“I wasn’t _buying_ you out, Estinien.” She said quietly. “I was just helping you. Now you’re free to do as you like.”

“Why? Worried about your own conscience if you didn’t?” He snapped, still feeling no less trapped for her kindness. 

The ache in his chest twinged. She should not be here. She should not be _trying._

“You know that’s not—”

“Isn’t it? Why else would you chase after me?” Estinien bore his fangs in a snarl. “Shouldn’t you be off, happy with Aymeric—”

“He still loves you.” She said, and in one strike, she won their bout. “As does Hyana. As do I. I only came to give you this.”

Estinien’s gaze flickered to her extended palm but didn’t linger, fearful it was a trap, until he remembered she had only ever been gentle with him when she had the choice, and looked again. Cradled in her hand was a simple iron key, and an only slightly more ornate ring next to it.

He took the ring first, turning it over in his fingers. Silver, with little gems arranged in the shape of a constellation in it. Neat lines connected the gems, delicately carved by a master craftsman. The gems were all different, but the meaning was not lost on him: a pale blue, connected to a garnet, connected to a sapphire, connected to an emerald.

They reminded him of each of their eye colors. A pity. He had tried so hard to forget.

“I’m not interested in marriage.”

“Neither am I, you fucking moron. It’s a teleporter ring.”

He eyed the key with less scrutiny, and picked it up with care. It had considerable heft to it, though the iron was of no less superb quality.

“And this?” He chanced.

“A key to my home. Our home.” Serella shrugged a shoulder. “I’m not forcing anything. It’s an invitation. A reminder that you have a home, no matter where you travel.”

Estinien looked down at the trinkets in his hands. He couldn’t discern what he felt beyond that throbbing ache where his heart should be.

“What am I meant to do with them?” He asked in a whisper.

“Whatever you like.” She leaned up to her tip toes and kissed his temple. A blossom of warmth he had forgotten. His eyes stung. “We love you. That’s all I wanted to remind you of.”

As promised she walked away, and left him to his thoughts, standing there on the pier beyond the Shiokaze Hostelry, eyes swimming in tears. He had hoped the ache would go away with her, or at least, grow more bearable with her absence.

It did not.


	16. Lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is still a silly word but this fic is a reincarnation fic set 600 years post-current xiv era, because I'm an ugly sobbing mess for that kind of shit, so I hope this makes y'all as happy as it makes me

To say that discovering what had happened to those closest to the Warrior of Light from the Seventh Astral Era, now some six hundred years past, was the culmination of Ciri’s life’s work was a gross overexaggeration, though it was the first project she had been approved for grant money to pursue out of graduate school. It was an interesting enough period in history that there was ample interest in the nitty gritty of it, though the obtuse nature of the way that era was chronicled had made it an intimidating one to approach.

Ciri didn’t know the concept of being intimidated by academic research, however, and had leapt into it headlong, eager to know what had become of the historic figures that had risen up in the wake of the Serella Arcbane of legend.

It had been fairly easy to reverse engineer her path of adventuring, and from there, Ciri had managed to discover so much more than she had thought she could in some case, in others, almost _nothing._ Which had ultimately led her travels to Ishgard, tucked away in one of the recently restored Scholasticate libraries, pouring over tomes and records by low lamplight to help with her migraine.

It was late enough that everyone else in the building had long since gone home, save for the janitorial staff. It was a common enough occurrence that Ciri made it a habit of buying the lot of them takeout while she was there. Half as a bribe to not kick her out, but mostly so she could continue her work unburdened with the worry that they hadn’t eaten enough in the day. 

There were _reasons_ she was their favorite academic.

“Still here?” A dulcet voice asked from the doorway to the archives.

_Emil._ She didn’t even have to look up to know. She would know him anywhere.

“As ever.” She called back. “What on earth are you still doing here?”

“You should know me better than that by now.” With the echoing clack of his footsteps approaching her, she was spared being startled when he set a thermos on the table for her. “I couldn’t well enough just abandon my partner in crime.”

She spared him a plain look from over the tome she had been pouring over.

“You just don’t like going through that one street alone, do you?”

“Have you _seen_ the way those dancers leer at me?” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I can’t tell whether they’re trying to lure me in to seduce me or put me to _work.”_

“The woes of bountiful beauty.” Ciri sighed, and snapped the book she had been reading shut.

She tossed it to the side of her in half disgust, along with the veritable mountain of other tomes that had proven to be just as uninformative.

“You would know far more than I.” He cooed around a saccharine smile, preening at the way she flushed at the compliment.

“You do this on purpose, I swear it.” She grumbled goodnaturedly.

Though Emile laughed, his eyes scanned the discarded tomes, pursing his lips. “Still having trouble finding him, then?”

“Technically.” She heaved a sigh, her back thumping against her chair as she took a moment to pout in a manner most unbecoming an academic. “I keep running into dead ends. He was a goddamn _world leader_ , how does history _lose_ someone like that?!”

There yet remained one final piece of the mystery she needed before her work was done. She could _not_ leave it to be lost to the annals of history for no other reason than her lack of due diligence, that was for damn certain.

“Quite easily, I assure you.” He replied, and finally held up a bag of takeout he had brought up with him and set it on the table. “Take a break with me, rest your eyes.”

He set out a variety of containers, each more fragrant and savory than the last. Betraying her own neglect, Ciri’s stomach growled loud enough that he paused in divvying up food to arch a brow at her.

“When did you last eat?”

“…Monday…?” She said hesitantly once she had ticked back the hours. 

It was only Tuesday, right? That wasn’t so bad.

“Cirilla Anne Dubois! It’s Wednesday!” Sparing a glance at his watch, he grimaced and amended, _“Thursday,_ by now! _Eat!”_

He set a large soup container in front of her to punctuate his command, and the scent of beef broth filled her senses. She had to swallow heavily from how her mouth watered.

“Udon…?” She asked hopefully.

“Of course. And a shared order of tempura.” He promised, laying out another container between them.

A ritual for them, to share meal and knowledge alike. Something that had carried over from their days in uni, and even before then. She had been glad for Emil’s constant, comforting presence throughout their travels and research. They could be doing nothing but laughing over a silly video on his tomephone, and sharing bits of food, and still, she would be the happiest woman in the world.

Emil somehow seemed to always know when she needed a break. The food had been exactly what she had needed, she realized the moment that the first bite had settled on her tongue. He had even brewed her tea, she realized when she popped the thermos open and sniffed at the delicate complex and slightly sweet aroma. 

Truly, these were the moments that made her work worthwhile.

“Review with me, like we always do. Something to break up the lucubration by lamplight, if you will.” Emil brought her back, the bright amber of his eyes comforting in the low lamplight. After he chewed around a mouthful of curry and rice, he continued, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Tell me of the other Alliance leaders, and how their stories ended.”

“But you _know._ You’ve been with me every step of this research trip.” Ciri whined after a long dreg of her tea.

“Sure, but isn’t it important to look again? To make sure you didn’t miss anything?” He encouraged. 

He had a point, even if Ciri didn’t want to admit it.

“Where to start…” She tapped her fingers on the table. “Lyse Hext and Hien Rijin formed a bridge between the Doman and Eorzean Alliances when they were wed, paved the way for current world politics in that regard, though they ultimately focused on adopting refugee children and rebuilding Doma and Ala Mhigo respectively. Admiral Merlwyb Bloefhiswyn adamantly refused to retire until she had found a suitable replacement.”

“Only for her First to ultimately convince her to do so that she might marry the love of her life.” Emil supplied, food all but abandoned to focus his attention solely on her.

_“Y’Shtola Rhule,_ of all people.” Ciri snorted. “ _“The only woman to keep me honest. I would have no other.”_ It was so recorded she had said in her wedding vows.”

“Good for them.” He nodded.

“Raubahn Aldynn eventually retired from his position as General of the Ala Mhigan army, and had lived a content life as a hobbyist carpenter and full time grandfather to his son’s children.” She paused to chew on a mouthful of noodles. “For the life of me, I couldn’t confirm who Pipin Tarupin had settled down with, though there is some suggestion that it was eventually Nanamo Ul Namo, having all but disappeared upon successfully dissolving the sultanate of Ul’Dah.”

“It’d be a neat end to several loose threads.” Emil shrugged a shoulder. “Can’t blame popular theory for running with it.”

“I just hate that I don’t know— and I’d asked Kan-E-Senna in that interview, too, lest you wonder.”

Kan-E-Senna didn’t count as a reliable source of information on the whole, the _crone._ Eternally youthful and blessed by the Twelveswood, Ciri had squared her away with a simple interview. The Elder Seedeer had been a bit of a dead end for damn near everything but Merlwyb and Y’Shtola’s wedding, citing that she had simply not been very close with anyone else, preferring the company of the wood itself.

Ciri still couldn’t tell whether that was the truth, or she was just being an obtuse old bat having a laugh at a young academic’s expense.

“Dead ends, all, for what on earth happened to the last of them.”

She blew a curly bang out of her face with a frustrated huff. Infuriatingly, it sprang right back to where it had hung in her eyes. With an agitated grunt, she sat up and gathered all of her hair to hold back with a head scarf. Plucking a zucchini tempura piece from its container and popping it in her mouth, she went back to the tome she was pouring over when Emil arrived and flipped to the page she had been on. 

“I’ve solved what happened to all the rest. But what happened to _him?”_ She hissed almost under her breath, the blunt end of her pen tapping against a specific portrait of a historic figure depicted in the text.

Inky hair swept over bright eyes, a young man barely in his thirties draped in gilded armor and blue finery. Lord Commander of the Temple Knights of Ishgard during and after the Dragonsong War. Speculated beloved of the Warrior of Light. Aymeric de Borel. 

“I can’t figure out what happened to him after he retired.” Ciri frowned at the portrait of the handsome man. “He was barely thirty-seven, and was in good health, by all accounts. The Borel Manor is still in the family name, even centuries down the line, though none of them are of blood relatives.” She tapped her pen to her bottom lip in thought. “Family trees confirm he adopted his children, though he himself was also an adopted kid, so the Borel bloodline had already died out before he had even retired, in a manner of speaking.”

“But _when_ did he adopt them? Did he have a spouse? And _why_ — and _how_ — in the ever loving _fuck_ did he just vanish from all record?!”

“You keep thinking of him as a historical figure.” Emil noted patiently, setting down his chopsticks and reaching across the table to gently hold her hand. “Think of him as a _person._ What, considering all of the other people in Ell— the _Warrior of Light’s_ life chose for themselves, what would you think he would want, above all else?”

“…You know something I don’t.” Ciri accused after a moment of scrutiny, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“A rarity, but just this once, yes.” He nodded. “Though for disclosure: I only came about the knowledge tonight.”

“Why not tell me sooner?”

“I wanted you to _eat,_ my dear.”

There was something that struck her as deeply familiar about this moment. The dark brown of his skin was stark against the rolled up sleeves of his pale blue shirt, and yes, he was distractingly handsome all the time, and _yes,_ they had always shared food and conversation before, but this…

Ciri had never been to Ishgard before her academic research. Not once. And yet, it felt as though she had been here, with him, having this conversation before.

It might have been a trick of the light, but for a moment, his eyes were a peculiar kyanite blue.

Odd.

“Have you been down to the Vault’s archives?” At her nod, he smiled wider and pushed away from his seat, hand held out in offering. “Come, let me show you something you might have overlooked.”

“Bold of you to imply I’m not thorough in my work, Emil.” She pursed her lips, even as she accepted.

“I would never— I only mean that you didn’t know to look for _this.”_

His smile widened when she placed her hand in his. As if she would ever refuse him. As if she ever could.

The toe of her boot caught on the ankle of her opposite foot when she made to stand— _ah, new boots, damn it all_ — and she braced for a fall. Emil, always happy to help, had easily braced and caught her before she had truly fallen, and helped right her on her own feet. 

“Falling for me at last, my dear?” He asked with a dazzling smile.

“Fuck’s _sakes,_ you know I fluster easily.” Ciri sputtered around her blushing, though she did use the excuse of wobbly legs to press close to him for a moment. 

Ahh, they never did talk about what they were after that one college party…

“Come on, I promise it isn’t long— and we’ll be back to finish our food, lest you worry.” 

Hand in hand, Ciri and Emil made their way down, down, _down_ the winding steps of the Congregation, deeper and deeper still into the Vault, past the chapel, beyond the stained glass windows, until they were again wrapped in nothing but lamplight. 

How was this so familiar? How did this feel like they had done this before?

_“You’re being silly!”_ The low alto voice of a woman rang in her mind. Ciri almost tripped on the steps.

_“And dramatic, lest you forget, but pray allow me this.”_ She would have almost swore it was Emil that had spoken, had the dialect not been so old. 

_What_ was happening to her? What _was_ in that Udon?

The Archivist waved them through with barely a glance at their badges— they had become familiar faces at that point— and popped a grape in his mouth distractedly, eyes never leaving the book in his hand. With a word of thanks, they continued on their way.

It was in the darkest corner of the archives, one of the last bookshelves, where Emil finally came to a stop. The hand not holding hers thumbed through the volumes until he found an unmarked tome of deepest black and pulled it from the shelf.

“Look at this.” He said quietly.

Ciri studied the cover a moment with trembling fingers. Unable to contain that strange ache in her chest, that sense of longing and… _fear?_ Bracing herself she opened the book.

It was such a worn thing, it practically fell open all its own. She nearly dropped the thing for how her hands trembled. A thoughtful frown marred her face as she read the title, written in neat penmanship. 

_“The Last Will and Testament of Aymeric de Borel?”_ Ciri whispered. “But…I don’t understand—”

“Read it.” Emil whispered, close enough she could feel his warmth, a welcome, gentle hand at the small of her back. “You will, I promise you.”

Its first entry was, perhaps, its most telling. The last piece of the puzzle. The end of her journey— and the beginning of something so much more personal, as she recalled a life she never lived.

_“Today I am married to the love of my life. Today, Aymeric de Borel dies. In his place, Aymeric Arcbane will find a thousand different happily ever afters, both here and on the road, as long as her hand is in mine.”_

In different handwriting, a cheeky remark of, _“A bit of a dramatic exit, given we’re only going on our honeymoon, but it’ll do, I suppose.”_

“He found them.” Emil said softly. When she looked up at him, his bright eyes bore into hers. “Every one of those happily ever afters. He found them all, every time, with her. _This_ was all he ever wanted.”

Ciri remembered being a full fulm taller, broader in shoulder, lighter in skin that was heavy with scars, and having two different eye colors. She remembered feeling her shoulders pulled down with a weight she herself couldn’t fathom. She remembered fighting, over and over and over again.

For him. For his smile.

Her eyes swimming with tears, Ciri gently closed the book, and with the hand not cradling such a precious treasure to her chest, she reached out to him.

Of course she had already loved him. She always had. Of course he had loved her in kind. He had never stopped.

“That’s alright, then.” She said.

They left the Vault together again, for the first time in six hundred years, laughing just as brightly as they had before.


	17. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection of a fading star. Vague 5.0 spoilers

Though there would doubtless be records of the Warrior of Light from the Seventh Astral Era that would long outlive her, paint her in the loveliest of lights and the darkest of shadows both, depending on who held the brush, Serella had made herself be content with the knowledge that she, as a person, as Serella Arcbane, was little more than a star destined to fade.

So it had always been, so it always would be, surely. She would offer light and warmth to those who needed her, but they didn’t always need her, and eventually, they wouldn’t need her at all. So she would drift amid the dark emptiness, until her star would collide with another in need of her.

Adventuring had been perfect for that. The people would put their wishes out there, waiting for a comet to streak past and make them true. To some extent, that was exactly as Serella did, answering the call to action time and again to keep people safe, fed, and sheltered, and moving along once that wish was granted. It was satisfying work. It was enough.

Serella didn’t necessarily have to be missed. She was _useful._ No one mourned a tool when it was no longer needed.

When she was welcomed into the Scions, she had thought, _“Ah, at last. A tool with a purpose.”_ She had taken to the work with gusto, though she had also learned to live and laugh with the companions that she had worked alongside. The Archons, aloof as they might have been for their duties and their own nature besides, were colleagues she had come to cherish. Minfilia had been a source of light and warmth in a dark place, smiles and shared vulnerability. There was an understanding between the two of them that few others could claim, each being bearers of Her Blessing. It wasn’t the same, but they had at least _understood._

At their loss, however temporary, Serella had thought, _“Ah, there’s the other shoe.”_ What use did a tool have for happiness and comfort? What use would it be to her, when she could use the anger and the bitterness to sharpen her edges into better tools of revenge.

Even finding them again had come with the trepidation of, _“I will lose them again. Tools are only so useful for so long. I’ll fail them again.”_

And she had been right.

By the time she found love with Ser Aymeric, she had long consigned herself to live without. His reciprocation had been something of a shock to her system, and much as she had welcomed it, cherished him, and sank into the familiarity of his warmth, she couldn’t help but think, _“He’s settling for what he can reach.”_

When he opened up to her regarding his longstanding affection for Estinien, it hadn’t surprised her: she had functioning eyes and ears. To deny the two had loved each other, and had done so for long before she had ever known them, would be folly or ignorance. To deny him the opportunity to choose him over her would be selfish. She told him as much.

Even now, so long after that conversation, Serella couldn’t fathom why he had looked so hurt.

It wasn’t as thought she couldn’t see why Aymeric loved Estinien: Hyana loved him, too. _She_ loved him, too. So it only made sense to welcome him into their life, if Estinien had wanted it, too.

That Serella perpetually expected to fade out of the polycule was moot: she consented enthusiastically, for love of Aymeric and Estinien _and_ Hyana in equal measure. The time she spent with them, the effort they had made to include her at all, was something she cherished immeasurably, and would be enough to keep her warm when they had decided she was no longer worth that effort. She just wondered when they would realize they didn’t need her.

Why would they love her when she ran out of stories? Why would they need her when she would, inevitably, be too broken to lift a sword? She couldn’t think of a reason. Surely, they wouldn’t be able to, either.

If she were a comet, streaking across the night sky in a flash of brilliance before the fade, those three were a constellation, strung up by the gods themselves in their image, made to be preserved and painted and adored. If she were a shooting star that people hung their wishes on, They were the sort of stars people tied their promises to, because they were good enough for _eternity_.

So when at last Serella began to go into supernova, when the light began to burn away the rest of her, she marched on unfeeling legs toward the Amaro launch, intent on storming into the depths of Hades’ domain, alone, content to at last fade out if it meant saving everyone she had ever loved. Let them sing songs of her friends, her family, the people she had loved and lost and cherished all the while. 

Serella was as a comet in the night sky: blazing, brilliant, and always destined to fade.


	18. Panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5.0 spoilers. In any universe where it’s Serella that takes on the burden of absorbing the Light on the First, she works alongside the Crystal Exarch with little complaint, though recognizes him and can’t reconcile who he is with who he was. 
> 
> In any universe where she watches someone she loves take on that burden, the Crystal Exarch is not safe from her wrath. Ft. Hyana Geriel, exquisite lizard gf.
> 
> (to be abundantly clear, this is my character reacting to a what-if scenario, and is in no way me ripping on the Exarch- I like his character, and don’t wish anything bad on him. Just getting this disclaimer out there now)

Upon their return to the Crystarium following the return of the night sky over Rak’tika Greatwood, the Exarch couldn’t help but notice the obvious degradation of Hyana’s condition. Even if Serella hadn’t been all but supporting her as they stood in the Occular, it was hard not to see the way that the Warrior of Light seemed to exist in a greyscale, all the purples and ravens that made Hyana Geriel all washed out from the Light. It was admittedly hard to look at, though he couldn’t help but observe it. 

He was responsible, after all. 

Their meeting had been brief, made all the shorter for how Hyana’s already paled skin grew ashen with nausea. Despite being the one to firmly conclude the meeting on her behalf, Serella was shockingly Panglossian about the whole affair, gently ushering Hyana toward the door.

“Head to your suite in the Pendants, Violet— I have soup from home I’ll bring you once I wrap up a few things around the Crystarium.”

“From home?” She asked in a voice entirely too small for the powerful, unflinching woman the Exarch knew her to be.

“Aymeric was sent into a fit of cooking when I reported in back at the frontline. Nothing like campfire soup, yeah? They used some good dodo meat and bones for the broth.”

Hyana had grumbled a bit more, the Exarch was all but certain of it, though Serella was unmoved, and still sent the Warrior of Darkness off with a smile. 

Unmoving as it was, that smile turned into something unsettling to him as the remaining Scions filed out, but Serella remained. An oddity: she had never lingered there.

“Was there something you wanted to speak with me regarding, Warrior of Darkness?” The Exarch asked, tone light despite the tightening of his grip on his staff.

“Many things. Most of which I know you won’t tell me.” She chirped. 

Her tone sent a shiver up his spine.

“I assure you that we _will_ save Hyana. Though I thank you for your optimism—”

She was faster than she looked. Despite having stood at near the opposite side of the Occular from him, he hadn’t been able to react to her closing that distance in a smooth, lightning quick dash. Her hand collided with his neck with such impact he was thrown into the wall behind him. The force of it jarred the staff from his hand, clattering loudly to the floor. Pinned to the wall by his throat as he was, it was a marvel she hadn’t outright begun to choke him.

“My _optimism_ is only there because I have _unflinching_ faith in Hyana. Not _you.”_ Serella said, and he might feel less threatened by her words if that smile on her face had not still remained. _“You,_ I can’t trust near so far as I can throw you.”

Her bright, happy tone was a sharp contract to the way she lifted him, near effortlessly, just high enough that he had to hold his weight on the tips of his toes. She didn’t _choke_ him outright, but his sandals were smooth enough that he slipped in attempting to hold himself up.

“If you kill me now, she will be lost.” He said, and said in truth.

“I don’t doubt that. Your life isn’t in danger at the moment.” Serella cooed, all good cheer and a toothy grin that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. “But I love her. Her, and the Scions, but none of them more than _her._ And if I lose any one of them to _you_ and your _bullshite,_ using them as you are _—”_

“I am not using them as tools!” The Exach cried, hands impotently clutching at her iron grip.

She squeezed then, not enough to cut off his breathing, but he could still hear the crystal that had crawled up his skin creak under the pressure. He scrabbled to right his feet when they slipped again.

“Oh, so ripping them out of their bodies, pulling them to another realm entirely, and all without their consent to play your little games and keep your fucking secrets _isn’t_ using them? _Isn’t_ endangering them?” 

Her smile thinned, and somehow that was worse. That barely there smile that wasn’t reflected at all in those mismatched eyes of hers. There yet remained a dark upturn of the corner of her lip, and the more he watched her expression, the more he saw something darker yet swimming in her eyes. It flared out, briefly, a purple flame flickering on the outer edge of her sclera, turning white to black. Shadow and light lived in a whorl within her, and she threatened to bring the storm to bear on him.

It had been some time since he was reminded of his mortality.

“I can’t stop you. I can’t risk losing them to my own anger. But if they die because you’re still an arrogant little prick who can’t ask nicely, I _will_ kill you. I don’t care if we were friends once.”

“You do not know—”

“I assure you:” Serella snarled, in a voice that strangely sounded as if there were two people speaking at once. _“I do.”_

Quickly as the moment had passed, it was over, and he was solidly on his own two feet, free of her grip. As she brushed some nonexistent dust off of the shoulder of his robes, her smile returned, all springtime and brightness. Before he had even thought to collect his staff, still trying to regulate his breathing again, she spun on her heel and left as though they had just finished discussing the weather. 

“I’m glad we had this conversation, _Exarch._ May your destiny continue to lie in the future.”

Standing alone in the Occular as he shakily collected his staff, G’raha Tia’s blood ran cold.


	19. Where the Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Serella's mom, Myrina Arcbane!
> 
> Bit of backstory for this one: Serella's home village of Elmvale was destroyed by the Twelveswood itself, when it invoked Greenwrath for helping people it had deemed unfit to stay in the wood. The incident left her parents presumable dead- though her mother survived by pure chance when a traveling healer and his husband found her after the attack. By then, however, Serella and her brother were taken in by a Duskwight clan that had been on friendly terms with their village. So for decades, Serella and Uthengentle presumed Myrina dead, while she couldn't tell what had happened to her children because she never found even their bodies.
> 
> They reunite sometime in SB, but this is before that.

It was around that time of year again.

Tailfeather’s perpetually autumnal weather turned balmy, _almost_ comfortable, almost like home, and what crops the settlement had were just beginning to hit their peak time for harvesting. Where the sunlight is just a bit too warm and the chocobos are a bit too far away from the tree canopy to safely track and catch.

And Myrina set out on her yearly pilgrimage again.

She never took long. Never needed to. Tailfeather could do without her for a fortnight or so, besides.

The journey from the Forelands into the Shroud was always a blur. Eventually the high boughs of the protective trees around Tailfeather gave way to lush, open fields, and in time they dipped off into the oppressive weight of the Twelveswood. She had taken it enough times that it had become something of an unofficial path, one that was worn well into the earth for how dutifully she had taken it. The geography of the place shifted under her grief; tall grass giving way to a narrow dirt path, jagged rocks smoothing out to stepping stones. 

Even if the earth hadn’t shifted around her, it wouldn’t have mattered. She would not be denied.

The Shroud engulfed her ere long— really, she was making this journey faster and faster every year— and before long, she was deep enough into the Twelveswood that she began to recognize the twists and turns, the old paths the wood refused to not reclaim for itself.

Obscured and destroyed and buried beneath the flora though it may be, Myrina would know Elmvale anywhere.

This was where the earth stubbornly clung to its greenery, where she could swear that the crushed grass beneath her feet rose up again the moment her foot left the ground. Where the Greenwrath would never forgive them for being kind. Even as she stepped deeper into the clearing, she could feel eyes unseen watching her, bearing down on her. Even now, decades later, the Twelveswood rankled at her return.

Let it. She would not be denied.

Elmvale was gone in all but her memory, but she made that enough. The clearing where the village had once sat was eerily pristine, save for the graves she had marked herself. As she approached, she couldn’t help but purse her lips at the moss that had begun to grow over the faint stones. Again. At least she had started coming prepared for that, too, some years back.

Thus, her ritual began.

A cleaning cloth with some repellant was taken to each of the stones, and they were cleaned with care until they gleamed again in the dappled sunlight streaming through the trees. Until the names Myrina hadn’t spoken since her last visit again could be seen clear as day. With each grave marker cleaned and a few flowers placed in offering, she called their name out into the wood, defiant of it’s will, demanding that they be remembered. They were good people. They had deserved so much more than this, but this was all she could give them.

She always saved her husband’s for last. Another part of her ritual.

Hanvesh rested beneath the tree that had grown behind their house, as he had always said he had wanted on those nights so long ago when they would talk of passing the house down to their children. Rather than only remain kneeled at the graveside long enough to clean it and give flowers like the others, Myrina bent to kiss at his name etched onto the stone and took a seat at her husband’s side.

“Hello, dear one.” She whispered. “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit again.”

The bottle of wine she had brought was small. Only enough for one glass, but it was all she would need. As she brought the lip of the bottle to her lips, she couldn’t help but hear Hanvesh’s chuckle on the breeze, all smoke and campfire warmth, as she had once called it.

_“No glass for the high house lass? ‘Fraid I’m a bad influence!”_ He had told her once, back when they were but humble adventurers on the road, passing a bottle of wine and clandestine kisses between them on a starry night.

She had been told, all her life, by many, many people, that home was where the heart is. It had been such a vague, unhelpful saying in the wake of her family’s deaths, and a cold comfort after she had been taken in by one of the lesser noble houses. By the time her fellow Dragoons had said it in passing as they all shared stories of what they had to look forward to after each mission, it had held about as much meaning as asking about the weather.

Leaning against her husband’s grave marker and taking another pull from that bittersweetly familiar wine, she hated that this was what it took for her to understand what that phrase had truly meant.

_Welcome home,_ Myrina recalled her Hanvesh joyfully greeting her whenever she came home from hunting, or trips into Gridania proper.

“It’s good to be home.” She had always told him, and told him again now, even as he could no longer hear her.


	20. Jailbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set post 2.5, prior to the start of 3.0. Serella's older brother, Uthengentle, manages to escape the Braves, but he refuses to leave without a certain companion.
> 
> or: Uthen can’t save Raubahn but he can save a chicken, and that’s what he’s gonna do, by god
> 
> content warning: mention of use of restraints on a chocobo, but no injuries take place

In the sennight following his revelation about what _really_ happened to the Sultana, Uthengentle did his level best to keep up appearances—though he had begun to lay out what he hoped was a good enough plan to get _out_ while protecting those who would still be trapped _in_ the snare the Crystal Braves had become. In front of Ilberd— and _Yuyuhase,_ who he suspected had far less noble intentions behind his particular brand of villainy— Uthengentle appeared as he had for months, as nothing more than a bitter brother who had made the ‘correct’ choice.

In his dealings with those who he was closest to, those who had given him a cold shoulder, however…he spoke softly. He reached _out,_ for the first time, and nearly wept every time he was met with a relieved, “I’d hoped you’d come around,” every time he did. Suddenly he was warmed by their company again—and they were eager to help him break up the Braves to boot. So long as no one did anything reckless, and nothing suddenly broke out within the ranks…Uthengentle might actually pull this off while sparing as many innocents as possible.

And if something did blow up, as it was wont to do, well. He had thought of that, too.

The morning had been unseasonably cool, with crisp, cloudless skies and a gentle breeze on the wind. That was not to say that it was _cold_ in Thanalan—could it truly ever be, he idly wondered—just that the weather could be described as pleasantly _below boiling._ As he walked the streets, he averted his eyes to those who looked upon him with disdain, who had spat at him— and worse— when he had worn the Braves uniform. At least now, he fully and truly understood _why._ He was not there to tarry, however; Ilberd was expecting him, and he would do well to keep up appearances.

Instinctual dread had settled in the pit of his stomach when Ilberd had instructed him to meet at the Royal Stables, where her Grace’s most prized birds were stalled. As if that were not enough cause for concern, he remembered who else’s chocobo was still there, unmoving and belligerent to all who approached him.

Sure enough, he only barely rounded the bend before he heard a muffled commotion, the percussion of a struggle against stall walls only interrupted by a panicked, angry wark!

Swallowing his heart, Uthengentle entered the stables.

The sight before him made him nauseated. Ilberd stood, flanked by Yuyuhase and Laurentius observing a mix of soldiers from both the Brass Blades and the Crystal Braves— _but not the Flames­,_ Uthengentle noted bitterly— struggling to hold down a horrifically familiar snow white chocobo. The poor bird thrashed against the ropes they had tried to leverage to pin his torso down from jumping, his beak gnashing against the muzzle they struggled to put on it.

“Ullr,” Uthengentle said under his breath without thinking.

Ilberd turned toward his wayward protégé, alerted to his presence.

“There you are,” the newfound Braves Commander hailed him, his mouth set in a grim line.

Eyeing Uthengentle’s armor, Yuyuhase pursed his lips. “And not in uniform, I see,” he said in a snide voice.

“Local threw a piss jug at me.” Uthengentle lied easily. “Figured it’d be less disrespectful showing up in something _clean.”_

Really, he just felt dirty wearing the damned thing.

“You’d be right, Uthen.” Ilberd said, easing his frown into an almost sympathetic smile. Uthengentle ignored the rage that flickered in his chest at the nickname. “Good of you to come regardless. I have a task I would entrust to you.”

Already, Uthengentle could see where this was going. His stomach churned as he fought the urge to fidget.

“I could entrust this to no other, if I’m being honest.” Ilberd continued, oblivious— or uncaring— of Uthengentle’s growing unease. “I’ve been attempting to return this feathered _fiend_ to the Maelstrom—we’ve no use for him, ornery bastard as he is.”

“I could calm him down, sir.” Uthengentle volunteered, hoping it would be enough and he wouldn’t be asked to do what he knew he would be asked to do. “I could even ride him to Vylbrand—“

“T’would be a waste of time and effort, I’m afraid.” Yuyuhase groused, and Uthengentle saw the way his lip curled into a snarl. “The Admiral does not acknowledge your sister’s treachery—“ Ullr let out a shrill wail and bucked his head against a Brave who had managed to secure the muzzle around him. “—and has declared that her crime is not permitted to be released to the public without an investigation.”

_No fucking wonder,_ Uthengentle thought but did not say. Ullr’s cries of anger were muffled by the muzzle now, but they seemed louder than ever to his ears.

“Which leaves us with the unfortunate task of dealing with the bitch’s _bird.”_ Ilberd said gruffly. Uthengentle hid his wince with a cough. “We’ve tried calming it down enough for transport to the Maelstrom, but in the ensuing struggle, one of my men was severely injured.”

Uthengentle highly doubted that was the case, but a part of him hoped it was true. He bit his tongue and nodded gravely.

Ilberd continued, “Now, ordinarily I would be fine with just letting the damnable thing out free, but with such wild antics, we wouldn’t want to put the public at risk of injury, now would we?”

“They’ve got a muzzle on him, sir.” Uthengentle said helplessly. “I can just walk him out to—“

“I would not unduly put any more of _my men,”_ Ilberd emphasized with a pointed look to his lalafell companion. “At risk. Nor the Blades.” He turned to look back at his sister’s beloved companion, who was beginning to thrash harder as the panic well and fully set in. Uthengentle’s heart squeezed. “So I would entrust you to put that axe of yours to good use.” He clucked his tongue. “Waste of a perfectly good bird, but if it’s too imprinted on the Warrior of Light to be repurposed, then it needs to be disposed of.”

“Commander, I could—“ Laurentius spoke up, eager to prove himself.

“Uthengentle has already been assigned the task.” Ilberd said, turning away from the struggling chocobo to face the Arcbane Warrior fully. “Surely this is simple enough, no?” He pursed his lips. “Atonement for your failure at capturing the Sultana’s murderer.”

Uthengentle clenched his hands into fists, reminding himself to be _calm_ because _this_ was the kind of implosion he had planned for— he was only sorry Ullr got caught in the crosshairs.

“I won’t let you down—“ he tried to say.

“Again.” Ilberd cut him off sharply. “You won’t let me down _again.”_

“…No,” Uthengentle agreed slowly as he breathed out his rage. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Ilberd answered with a nod. He turned his attention to the men who were now pulling the ropes taut to force Ullr to be still. “Tie them off and step outside. No sense in getting your uniforms dirty.” With an almost bored flick of his gaze to Laurentius he ordered, “you, stay behind and help dispose of the body. And you,” he looked back at Uthengentle. “Make it a clean kill, eh? Don’t make the poor bird suffer.”

“Yessir.” Uthengentle ground out.

Satisfied that such unpleasant business was concluded, Yuyuhase was the first to dash off, clearly uncomfortable with witnessing the violence he was complicit in. Such cowards in power could rarely stomach the evidence of their own villainy, after all.

Ilberd stepped languidly back toward the door Uthengentle entered, but stopped long enough to place a hand upon his shoulder. Where that had once been a showing of brotherly companionship, Uthengentle could only liken it to the weight of his mistakes pressing down upon him.

“I know this must be hard.” Ilberd said— and perhaps he meant it, perhaps there was a spark of the man he once was in him that lamented what he had become. It didn’t matter. Uthengentle didn’t _care._ “But sometimes we have to do terrible things for the good of those lesser than us. For our home.” He squeezed his shoulder—in affection or in warning, Uthengentle couldn’t say. That didn’t matter either. “We know that well, don’t we?”

Uthengentle refused to tear his gaze away from Ullr, watching as the fight was worn out of him. As if he accepted his fate. Quietly, he replied, “I do. More than most.”

“That you do, my boy.” Ilberd said, removing his hand, leaving. “That you do.”

The doors closed, and it was just him and Laurentius, staring at the snow white chocobo in front of them. Ullr let out a low, crooning _wark,_ defeated.

“This…this doesn’t feel like something we should be doing…” Laurentius admitted in a trembling voice. Slowly, he reached for his spear, clearly intent on helping carry out the deed. “But…but it’s just like Ilberd said, isn’t it? We do bad so good people don’t have to?”

“That’s what he said.” Uthengentle said, pausing long enough to give the fool one last chance to make the right decision for once.

“Still…” Laurentius lowered his head. “It’s hard…but we’ll carry it out.”

The disgraced Wood Wailer looked up when Uthegentle clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” the Warrior agreed with him. “Yeah, it’s hard. Damn hard.”

Without preamble, Uthengentle forcibly pulled Laurentius toward him as he pushed his own head forward—just hard enough that the lancer’s forehead met his helmet with a loud, dull clang. Laurentius crumpled to the floor, unconscious but alive.

“My ‘elm’s harder, though.” Uthengentle said conversationally to no one, and stepped over the slumped twofold traitor.

_Wark?_ Ullr looked up, surprised.

“Easy, boy,” Uthengentle cooed, carefully but quickly using a dagger from his boot to cut the ropes holding him in place. “Easy, almost gotcha.” The ropes fell in messy piles much the same as Laurentius had, and once the last of them had been pulled from Ullr’s feathers, he unclasped the muzzle from his beak. “Atta boy.”

Ullr trilled and gave Uthengentle’s face a nuzzle, pleased that he was free and with someone he trusted.

“Now then,” Uthengentle said conspiratorially as he held Ullr’s face. “What say you we track down Ellie, eh?”

_Wark!_ Ullr agreed with an enthused nod and a fluttering of his wings.

The doors had been shut, for a mercy, so he had just enough time to saddle Ullr up before anyone caught wise. He spared a moment of thanks to Buscarron as he mounted the bird— having smelled trouble on the horizon, the barkeep had insisted he stable his chocobo in Gridania for safekeeping. Easy enough to go through there on the way to Coerthas, leash Ullr to his own bird, and make for colder climes. 

Assuming, of course, they made it out of Ul’Dah.

Quick but muffled footfalls were approaching the front. They were running out of time. 

“Alright boy,” Uthengentle leaned over to speak gently into Ullr’s head feathers. “They’ll try to attack us, but we just keep runnin’, alright? We don’t stop until we find Ellie.” 

_Wark!_ Ullr agreed, and Uthengentle guided them out of the back door. 

The sound of the heavy front doors of the stables bursting open alerted Uthengentle to the return of the guard. There was shouting— someone was barking an order to contact Ilberd. He bit back a grin as he spurred Ullr into a sprint down the alley. The shouting rapidly fell away, distantly echoing off the walls of the tightly cramped buildings…

...Only for a new chorus of voices to rise up ahead of him. In a wave of blue uniforms, they flooded the alleyway— with Ilberd spearheading their charge. 

But Uthengentle was prepared for this. Dragoon as he was, he channeled every second of training under Alberic and Estinien he’d gotten— and all of Estinien’s bastard energy he had absorbed— into leveling the sharpened lance at the tip of his axe’s handle, just above its head. He spurred Ullr into a faster sprint.

Ilberd intended to play chicken, it seemed, and doubled down, charging ahead, shield up and sword poised to slash.

But Uthengentle wasn’t willing to endanger Ullr for his own personal vendetta— and he had to get _out_ of Ul’Dah besides. Biding his time until the absolute last second, with a tap of his heel and an order of, “ULLR, _UP!”_ The chocobo leapt onto Ilberd’s shield and, using him as a leaping off point, soared delicately over the crowd of Braves behind him.

Uthengentle spared a glance over his shoulder once Ullr had landed back on solid brick and cackled at the sight of Ilberd knocked to the ground. When the Braves Commander rolled to look at his disappearing protégé, Uthengentle made a point of settling his axe on his back and slowly raising his arm, middle finger up, and held it there as he returned his attention to the road ahead of him.

More shouting— someone called for the gates to be closed to trap him in. Brass Blades began to shoulder past ordinary folk on the path to try and get to the gate lever. Uthengentle refocused and returned both his hands to the reigns. As he saw the gate of Thal descending ahead of him, he leaned further into Ullr’s feathers.

It’d be close, but he had no choice.

“I’ll keep you safe, Ullr, just don’t stop for anything!” He rallied the bird. “Let’s go find Ellie!”

Ullr let out a valiant cry and bent his neck low, pushing himself to run all the harder. The gate loomed overhead like a guillotine as they ran under it— they wouldn’t make it.

It didn’t matter. They _had_ to.

It was a near miss, but with a well-timed swing of his axe, Uthengentle managed to use the momentum from swinging it from his back and use a strong enough fell cleave on the jagged gate spike that it stuttered against the mechanisms controlling it. Sparks showered all around them as they managed to push through, raining down from both the point where his axe blade met the gate, and from the now ground down gears in the pulley system above. With a roar, Uthengentle used that Fell Cleave to push the gate up some fulm above them, high enough they could safely sprint through, and smoothly remounted his axe on his back as they slipped away.

The gate slammed behind them so hard Uthengentle felt the ground shake beneath their feet. Indignant roars reached his ears, but if they were a distant worry before, they were music to his ears now as he eased Ullr into a marathon jog.

They had some ways to go before they made it to Coerthas, after all.


	21. Foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes friendships decay over time, sometimes they fall apart from distance, or from a lack of contact. Sometimes, you just become a different person- or you don’t change, and your friend moves on.
> 
> Or sometimes it’s all of them, and you’re the Exarch.
> 
> (Spoilers for 5.0, an examination of my WoL's relationship with the Exarch. Please bear in mind I don't wish ill on his character or anything of the sort, just because I'm writing my WoL as critical of him)

Tracking down the Warrior of Darkness had been a grimly simple feat for the Exarch: he need only follow the trail of glowing, ectoplasmic residue she had taken to coughing up. Having fled the Occular to avoid anyone seeing her like that (and really, the why of that yet eluded him,) he had volunteered to give chase, heavy though his form might have been compared to that of the Scions. 

The weighty _clack_ of him as he walked ensured she would not be startled, at least, when he found her leaning against a railing looking out over the gardens.

“Couldn’t leave your weapon to her own devices for a moment of privacy, could you?” Serella’s voice, drenched in bitterness and thick with that luminescent bile she yet spat.

“You are no one’s weapon, least of all mine.”

Her laugh was harsh, and he squirmed at the derisiveness of it.

“Your words and your deeds don’t align, Exarch. It’s why you could never unite the Scions in common cause with you, and why none of us trust you even now.” She said to him over her shoulder.

He did not join her at the railing. In truth, he already regretted being the one to find her in the first place. Now, he was wondering if anyone should have found her at all. Upon reflection, none of the Scions had made to chase her, and he had thought that cruel of them, but now he wondered if it was merely because they _knew_ her.

But he knew her history. He knew her, too.

“You speak as if you understand me.” He pursed his lips.

“I don’t. And whose fault is that?” She retorted without hesitation. As he stammered for a reply, she turned on her heel, eyes sharp despite the bloodshot sclera from her nausea. What agitation she carried wilted the longer she looked at him. “We were friends, once.”

“Were we?” The Exarch chanced, heart in his throat. “I don’t recall.”

 _“I’d_ fucking thought so. Do you think yourself subtle? Do you think I don’t _know?”_ Ire returned, weak, tired, as she shot a glare at him. “If you think yourself so clever I wouldn’t figure it out, then you only prove my point, and do me a disservice both. But fine. Keep your secrets. It’s always been your way. I just thought you’d eventually stop.”

The Exarch didn’t know what to say— in younger years, in happier conversations, she had liked to exchange books and friendly barbs with him, their own little book club, he’d called them. Her friendship had _mattered,_ back then, because she didn’t give one fig what anyone thought of him or her. They were friends. He missed that greatly.

Not enough he would put a plan a century in the making in jeopardy, however.

“I won’t pretend to know what you’re referring to.” The Exarch said with an upturn of his nose. “But then, from all the tales I have read of you, you tend to befriend many and more people you should likely not. By all accounts, it was as much a strength as it was a weakness. Your greatest of both.”

“Ah, and you think you know my foibles from reading fairytales, do you?” She laughed humorlessly. “Always too much of an academic. You cling to those old historical documents like they’re _gospel,_ and I can tell you now that less than half of it was accurate.”

With a snort, she pushed off the rail and moved to return to the Occular. As she eclipsed him on her path, she threw one last barb over her shoulder, “You might have known that, had you asked.”

Every tale he had ever heard of Serella Arcbane had told of her wellspring of kindness, of her need to leap to other’s defense and be a shield of the people. On the whole, he had found such recounts to align with the woman he had once known as a friend, but he could not reconcile all he had known of her and all that he had seen with her treatment of him.

 _And who’s fault is that?_ Her words echoed in his mind, made all the bitter by his own self loathing.

After another moment of reflection to steel his resolve, the Exarch returned to the Occular. Alone.


	22. Argy-Bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes the only thing to do when your brother is arguing with his ghost boyfriend is to play chess with your ghost bro.
> 
> Alright so this came from the idea that Serella's First shard isn't Ardbert, but Branden, because the tank role questline came for my throat and left me in an emotionally compromised mess for several days after. And also Uthen's player and I have joked for years that Uthengentle was what would happen if Ardbert was left unsupervised.

“They’re arguing again, aren’t they?” Branden said tiredly, ghostly finger attempting in vain to poke at a bishop on the chess board.

“That they are.” Serella sighed and leaned over to pick up the bishop piece and held it in waiting. When he tapped at the space he wanted to move the piece to, she set it down for him. She frowned as she observed the board. “Damn, that’s a good move.”

 _“Oh, you think you’re so clever, do you? Think you’re makin’ a good argument for yourself?”_ Uthengentle’s muffled voice roared through the solid brick wall. _“Well I came prepared for this argument!”_

“Check.” Branden chirped.

Serella crossed her arms, her frown deepening. She had some few options on the board, but her prospects looked bleak. He’d been a better opponent than she had anticipated. After a few moments, she settled on shifting her knight to take the bishop, even knowing she put it in the path of the queen.

Decisive sacrifices must needs be made, in difficult times.

_“Yeah, I have a fucking list! It’s even alphabetized! I have a lot of reasons for thinking my chocobo is the best!”_

“Wait, that’s what all this argy bargy is about?!” Branden bolted up from his half slumped position, wide eyes looking over at the wall connecting the two rooms.

“As Uthen tells it, Ardbert had started commenting on how much more Seto had done compared to Momotoko.”

“Who?”

“His chocobo. Apparently this is grounds for a heated debate on who is better.”

_“Oooohh, so your feathered friend can talk! Whoop-dee-fucking-doo! That don’t make him smarter! You know how many idiots I have to talk to in a day?!”_

“Lad’s got a point.” Branden mused, pointing down at a rook and gesturing for Serella to move it to the far right corner.

“If Ardbert could hear you, he’d be scandalized.” She replied flatly, and set her chin in her hands as she contemplated her next move.

_“Momotoko can eat whole fucking tin can! He’s capable of turning anything into good fertilizer, even if it’s an ordinarily inedible object! Can Seto do that, ya incorporeal pissant?!”_

“Probably, actually.” Serella mused, moving her pawn two spaces out of its starting position.

Branden hummed and shook his head. “Sensitive stomach, from the neglect before Ardbert got him.”

“He was neglected? I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Regrettably, I’d been the first one to speak up on there being no point to keeping him.” Branden turned wistful, half paying attention when he asked Serella to move his queen forward. “Check.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.” Serella winced, though saw the opportunity to move her other knight to take the queen and readily took it.

_“YES HIS NAME IS MOMOTOKO AND YOU WILL RESPECT IT!”_

“Didn’t sound like me, either, looking back on it.” Branden sighed and leaned back against the chair he was oddly permitted to sit in. He crossed his arms thoughtfully as he studied the board. “I wasn’t much myself, after I left Voerburt. And I was even less myself after I had returned again, as you saw.”

A cacophany of noise— akin to furniture breaking, vaguely— could be heard through the wall, along with shouts of unbridled rage. 

“You got better.” She mused.

“I had help.” He gave her a wincing smile that turned apologetic as he tapped at his rook. “Checkmate.”

Wood splintered from the other side of the wall, followed by the crash of pottery shattering and metal utensils clattering to the floor. With a sigh, Serella dutifully moved the rook to block her king in.

“Good game.” She said in good sport.

_“OF FUCKING COURSE I FIGURED OUT HOW TO FIGHT YOU. WHAT KIND OF MHIGAN WOULD I BE IF I COULDN’T PUNCH A FUCKING GHOST.”_

“Aye, good game.”


	23. Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fun little piece I wrote to celebrate my friends and their wonderful OCs. A lighthearted short story from a pitstop on the road with a group of adventurers with nothing to do but enjoy the road.
> 
> Featuring the ever wonderful characters from the even more wonderful friends of mine, @foewreckem‘s Aoife Mahsa, @holyja‘s Hyana Geriel, @karoiseka‘s…Karoiseka O’dayla, and @nuclearanomaly‘s Ninira Nira
> 
> Uthengentle just wanted his stars read, not a dissertation on why it’s pointless to do it.

It was a relatively quiet day. Quiet enough that the group had made camp for lunch, taking a rare opportunity to enjoy the mild weather. 

Hyana and Ninira tended to the fish that had been freshly caught, grilling over the fire. In a pot, they added fish stock and vegetables to the rice they had only just cooked and fluffed, the smoky, rich scent of the cooking meal enough to inspire hunger even in the most stoic of the group. Karoiseka strummed lightly on her lyre, shaded in the tree as she was. At her side, G’raha dozed on and off peacefully, intermittently humming along to the tune his dearheart plucked out. Even not knowing the song necessarily, Aoife managed to harmonize on her own lyre, her voice soft as she joined G’raha in humming. Once he had laid out a folded up blanket as a smooth surface for his triple triad board, Uthengentle held out a deck of cards in offering to his sister, and at her nod, started to cut and shuffle the deck as she produced hers and did the same. 

By all rights, it was a blessedly mundane day, where they were beholden to nothing but the road, basking in the quiet calm, hard won after the chaos and strife they had endured.

That was usually when the trouble started.

“Why don’t you ever read people’s stars?” Uthengentle asked his sister offhandedly as he looked over his hand of cards.

“I don’t see the point to it,” Serella told him with a shrug. She laid her Moogle card on the bottom middle tile of the Triple Triad board. “I _can,_ but whatever I could say is vague and doesn’t help anyone with anything.”

“Don’t you read stars to heal and shite?” He pressed, tossing down a Morbol card on the bottom right.

Serella’s Moogle next to it turned from blue to red, lost to her. She sighed.

“That’s different,” She replied, half mumbling into her hand of cards. “That would be more akin to pulling _from_ the stars rather than _reading_ them.” 

“Sure, sure,” He half heartedly agreed, eyes sharp as she laid her Tonberry in the center tile. He placed down a Griffin card to its left to steal it, motion swift and decisive. “But couldn’t you, I dunno, just put up a stall when we hit towns, help people out for a bit of extra gil?”

“I’d just feel like I’m lying to them. I assure you, card reading is just _unhelpful_ in the best of times, outright _harmful_ in the worst of them.”

After a moment’s deliberation she decided her Moogle was utterly lost to her, and instead opted to play her Ixal card on the middle right space to reclaim the Tonberry in the center as hers, and stealing his Morbol card in the process. Uthengentle glared at her.

“Cheeky.” He clucked his tongue. “And anyway, isn’t it something useful for people anyway? If you can predict a possible future for them and all? That’s what they do, right?”

“You’d _think,_ but it’s so vague that there’s naught to be gleaned from it,” she answered, though let out a defeated grumble when he played Hraesvelgr on the left middle slot and all three cards flanking it turned red— with all but one tile his, his victory was secured. “Absolute _bastard,_ you are.”

“And a sore loser be ye!” Uthengentle replied in a mock pirate accent, his arms scooping the not insignificant amount of gil they’d been betting, sat in a jar, and curling around it, held to his chest as he cackled like a gremlin adding to his hoard. When he was sufficiently with her flat, unimpressed staring, he put the jar away and asked, “So why can’t you get aught from a reading?”

“It isn’t _helpful,”_ she huffed, even as she took her cards back from the board, “the most detail I might glean from reading the cards is that something might happen, but whether that _thing_ is good or bad depends on how the card is facing.” 

“I don’t follow.”

“The best reading you could hope for would be me saying, “hey, in the morning, something might happen to you!” She wiggled her hands in front of her. “And then, in the afternoon? Surprise! Something _else_ might happen!” She leaned across their makeshift table as a show of mock dramatic tension, hands on her knees as she rocked forward enough for her backside to leave the grass. “And then…in the dark of night…”

“…Something might hap—?”

 _“Something might happen!”_ Serella exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air and flopping back dramatically. With a huff, she let her arms slump back to her sides. “So yes. Very vague. Unhelpful. If I charged for it, I’d be a swindler and a crook.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Can’t do it.” Serella handwaved him as she tucked her deck back into her pack. “Stars say no.”

“Can you show me?” Uthengentle asked, and she could tell that his enthusiasm would not be sated with aught less.

“Really need a demonstration of how useless it is?”

“I like judging things for myself,” Uthengentle answered, leaning back in his chair and slinging an arm over the back. “Besides, sounds like it’d be interesting.”

“You have a strange idea of, ‘interesting,’ but sure,” Serella capitulated with a sigh, “I’ll read your stars— on the condition that you don’t complain when you’re disappointed.”

“Deal,” he agreed, already shuffling the Triple Triad board to clear it of his cards and flipped it over, blank side facing up on the folded over blanket. 

“May I watch?” Ninira asked, coming over to take a seat between them. “I’m curious on how this works.”

“Ah, is Ella on her bullshit again?” Hyana called over from the fire. 

At Ninira and Uthengentle’s confirmation, she dusted her hands on her pants and moved to sit right next to Serella. When the Astrologian turned a playful quirk of her eyebrow at her, Hyana shrugged and offered only, “If one or both of you is being stupid, I at least know it’ll be entertaining.”

“Cards?” Aoife asked, standing and peering down at their little makeshift reading board.

“I’m gettin’ my fortune read. Want to see?” Uthengentle asked her over his shoulder, gesturing for her to join them.

Aoife took a moment, eyes dancing between him and Serella. After a moment, she crouched down in place, not joining the unfinished circle that was forming, but not excluding herself.

“I will watch.” She said, tail twitching behind her. “From here.”

“As you like!” Uthengentle beamed at her.

Karo joined on the other side of the makeshift table, opposite of Ninira, between Hyana and Uthengentle. G’raha, equally curious for how little he had been able to witness of Astrology in practice, sat on his knees and pressed against his beloved’s back, hands on her shoulders, peering over her shoulder, tail swishing behind him excitedly.

Even as she laid her arcanima deck on the board, Serella could only shake her head at the group’s dogged curiosity.

“I can’t stress this enough: the only prediction I’ll make today that’ll be right is that you’ll all be disappointed. Now then.” Her hands were practiced as she shuffled the cards. “Let’s see what hand fate has dealt you.”

When the group groaned collectively, she laughed out of sheer delight, as she always did when she told her puns.

“Had to get one in, didn’t you?” Hyana grumbled at her side, half into her shoulder.

“You’re smiling.” Serella mused without even looking at her; she could feel it pressed into her shirt.

“I am, and _I hate it.”_ Hyana groused, even as it was obvious in the way she tried to hide her face entirely that her smile had only widened.

“Now then— I will draw six cards. A full sleeve.” Serella dictated her actions, laying the six cards face down on the board in two rows of three. “I will reveal them one by one, and read the stars’ intent for you.”

The first card on the top row was overturned. The group collectively leaned in ever so slightly to peer at it.

“The Bole, upright.” She gave a pleased hum. “Your immediate future is filled with potential. The energy it turns into is dictated by the energy that you put into it.”

“Explain this to me like I don’t understand it.” Uthengentle said slowly. “I _do,_ though. Understand it. Just…just for the group, y’know?”

“Try to have a good day, and you probably will.”

“Seems a fairly straightforward reading,” Ninira noted, tapping her chin in thought. “Though I can see why it would be unhelpful.”

“Hey now, there’s five more to go!” Uthengentle insisted, pumping his fist. His optimism would not be denied.

Serella turned over the next card, and frowned as she laid it out.

“Balance, reversed. Uncertain times approach you, and you will be made to make difficult decisions. Hard though they may be, stay the course. To flounder is to spell doom.”

“For…what…?” Karoiseka asked, a ponderous tilt to her head.

“A nondescript decision of uncertain import.” Serella replied, shrugging. “As I said: unhelpful at best, harmful at worst.”

“I’m starting to understand— this is primarily meant as a guideline, rathar than a strict edict from the stars, yes?” G’raha guessed after a moment’s thought.

“Generally, that’s the way of it. The idea is that it _informs_ you of how things can go, _if—”_ Serella pointed her finger up. “—You play your cards right.”

Another collective groan.

“I can’t stand you.” Hyana huffed, even as she leaned bodily into her.

“I know.” Serella gestured back at the cards. “Shall we?”

At the group’s murmured agreement, she turned over the next card. As she lay it out, face up, she hummed.

“Arrow, upright. I could wax more poetic about it, but more or less, what you’re doing is working, so keep doing it.”

“What…am I doing…?” Uthengentle asked, scratching his head.

“Exactly.” Serella turned over the fourth card. “Spear, upright. Your confidence works to your favor, but avoid growing arrogant, else your luck with take a turn for the worst.”

“How do I know when I’m arrogant and not confident?” Uthengentle asked helplessly.

“How indeed.” To prove her point, she didn’t answer as she flipped the fifth card. “Ewer, reversed. Your energy is finite, and you would do well not to run yourself dry of it over useless endeavors. Save something of yourself for yourself.”

“Wh—”

“No idea.” Serella replied, already knowing what he was going to ask.

As she flipped the last card with a dramatic flourish, she held it up, and as her eyes roved over the art, her face paled. The group leaned in even more, their attention hung on her reaction.

“What…what is it?” Aoife asked from just outside the circle of people.

Wordlessly, Serella laid the card down.

“The Spire. Reversed.” She said, tone grave as she laid the card down. “Your struggles will turn against you. Everything you’ve done will be for naught.”

Uthengentle swallowed heavily, though after a moment hesitantly spoke up, “Wait…didn’t you say this only pertained to the immediate future?”

“Oh hey, you’re learning.” Serella dropped all pretense of dramaticism, posture going lax as she shrugged. “And thus your fortune predicted itself: all your anticipation led only to disappointment.” Another shrug. “Or something else might happen. Who knows?”

“Coulda just said that in the first place.” He grumbled, puffing his cheek in annoyance. 

“I _did,_ you gullible maroon.”

Peace returned to the late morning. Ninira and Hyana dusted themselves off and returned to the food, soup now happily bubbling and fish pleasantly cooked and crispy with the perfect amount of flavorful char. Aoife took to happily rummaging around for bowls and cups, replacing the bubbling soup pot with a kettle of water and tea leaves. Karoiseka and G’raha returned to sitting against the tree stump, the former now playing a brighter song with an amused smile on her face as the latter rested his chin on her shoulder, watching Uthengentle chase his sister down the hill as he lobbed stale muffins at her head. 

Mundane, exactly as they had fought for.


	24. Beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exploration of the Fringes, of beliefs held sacrosanct, and the work that is never finished. Vague SB-era DRK spoilers

The Fringes were lovely, warm colors swaying in a cool draft of wind, every beam of sunlight that struck through the trees dappled the landscape in shimmering resplendence. The air was crisp, and save for the local fauna and the rustle of branches in the breeze, the world was hushed in awe of Gyr Abania’s splendor. 

Mindful of the quiet and the calm, Serella lightened her footsteps as she made her way through the paths worn into the forest bed. Eventually, the paths thinned, as fewer people had come that way, but there were still undeniable markers that it was yet a safe path to travel; as she understood it, to stray from the path for aught but protecting others or helping the forest, things of import that could not be helped, and such a belief was sacrosanct to those who lived not far from here. She would not dishonor that belief.

Eventually, the path blended in as the grass faded and the forest was left behind. Before her, the earth was awash in the rich reds, browns, and golds of the Fringes’ canyons. The sun warmed her as she emerged from the dappled shade of the trees, and she broke her silence with a content hum, though she continued on her personal pilgrimage. She’d taken this path many a time before, on business, in war, in personal turmoil.

Now, she walked the path in peace, her heart quiet but open. She listened as the fauna of the forest gave way to the chittering, scurrying of the more desert-like critters that darted from one shaded spot to another to avoid staying too long in the heat. The soft plodding of her boots hitting the dusty earth was a comforting sound, familiar as her own heartbeat.

Though the sun was warm, Serella did not remove her cloak; the walk into the canyon’s shadow wasn’t far, and the lingering heat would be welcome in the cool dark. Sure enough, stepping into the shade of the canyon made the temperature drop enough that she shivered against the chill. Still, she continued, undeterred. She had a mission.

As expected, the cave is empty, save for the singular beam of sunlight that streams in through the eye of the cave, peering down on Serella as she tread with care into the little sanctuary. It was only then, in this pocket of warmth seemingly carved out by Rhalgr himself, that she shed her cloak and lay in down on the dirt. She knelt on it, and sent a silent prayer for forgiveness that it wasn’t a proper prayer rug, though acknowledged that it was not her business to own one, not her faith to appropriate in such a way.

The Paladin’s vigil was silent, knelt there in what had been a refuge against Imperials and elements alike, a haven for refugees, adventurers, and wounded resistance fighters. 

A resting place for Gallien, too.

Her prayers thus offered in silence, Serella stood, and collected her cloak. She gathered it about her, and left without delay. She was not yet done.

As she stepped out of the dark and into the warming sun, she began to hum. It wasn’t her anthem— she didn’t have one, even with so many homes as she had found among kith and kin— but it was the anthem of many people who had passed, many more who mourned, who lived for those they had lost. For those they had saved. Uthengentle had taught it to her, when they were kids, small and huddled and hurting as they had been in the wake of their village’s destruction. What would he think of her doing this now, she wondered, humming the Ala Mhigan national anthem as she wandered on a path for no other reason than because no one else knew to mourn them.

He’d likely join her, if he knew even the half of it. 

Houdart had cut this same path, jagged and stumbling as the shade of his memory had been. Trying to get to Rhalgr’s Reach, trying to honor a dying man’s wish, desperately singing with his whole chest as he tried to martial every bit of his fading spirit to carry it out.

But Houdart was gone. As was Gallien. She would honor them both.

The anthem barely lasted long enough for her to make it into the Reach itself, but that was fine; the rest of her pilgrimage should be carried out in silence. From what other resistance members had told her, it was the most respectful thing to do, to offer the dead silence and remembrance. So that was what she did. 

The paths in the Reach were winding, but clearly marked, and it didn’t take her long to make it to the tombs where the recently deceased had needed to be interred. It was colder here than it had been in the canyon; the sun couldn’t reach here, but it didn’t need to. 

Some few mourners lingered, though all kept to themselves. Finding the right tomb had been easy enough; it had seen fewer visitors than the others, and the dust had begun to gather. Cleaning it was a quiet affair, but one she did in reverence, and made a concerted effort not to disturb more than she needed to. With a bow of her head once she was done, she lowered her eyes as she laid out her cloak, folded over as neatly as she could make it, and knelt.

It had been Gallien’s dying wish, to offer prayers for his dead brother. A wish Houdart himself had given everything to try to grant. It was only right that the one person that was there to remember upheld that wish, honored it, honored them.

Apologies, prayers for them to be at peace, hopes that what they were doing, what they continued to do and work toward rebuilding in Ala Mhigo were enough, even as she knew that the work would never be done, _should_ never be done, until they had swept away the Imperial haze and finished restoration proper of Gyr Abania. Her prayers tapered off with a promise: that she would see Ala Mhigo restored, would put in that labor with her own hands until she could do it no longer.

She hoped it was enough. She never felt like it would be, but that was hardly cause to stop trying.

Rising in silence and gathering her cloak about her again, the Paladin walked out of the tomb in silence, left in silence, and ended her vigil in silence.


	25. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote, briefly, about one of Aymeric’s exes, so it felt only right to introduce one of Serella’s! How fun!

It was a rare thing, Serella wishing on a shooting star. As a child, she did it every time she saw one, and had always had the sort of wishes that come with youthful naivete. Having been forged into a tool for the betterment of the realm, and having long grown out of those childishly selfish sort of wishes, she knew them better as a channeling mechanism, as a broad expanse of energy she could tap into. She knew them better as a chart to map out her course, as a balm to heal the hurts of those around her.

Even now, stood not far from a banquet table with a flagon of mead in hand, eyes watching the way Hyana, Estinien, and Aymeric all spoke in animated whispers and all dressed in finery befitting this Gridanian gala, Serella was reluctant to make wishes, to _hope_ for something for herself. Admittedly, she had taken the excuse of wanting more mead to just observe the three of them from afar. Aymeric, dressed down but still elegant, all fine leather and soft cloth in that shade of blue she could only associate with him, eyes crinkled in a smile in that way that only happened when it was genuine, and only really happened in their company. Even Estinien had managed to dress up a bit, though she suspects that had a lot to do with Hyana wrangling him into it— and _ah,_ Hyana. She was _resplendent_ , wrapped in a gown that looked to be made of the forest itself, she moved with the grace and power of water itself, and Serella watched, transfixed.

The three of them made a stunning constellation upon which she could chart her course, a guide home when she was lost. A pity, then, that Hyana and Estinien yet hesitated in joining. _Someday, I’ll be useful enough to justify it to them,_ she thought to herself— and ah, there was a wish, she supposed. She had memorized every constellation, every gate for an Astrologian to open, and still, she could think of no better stars to wish on than the three of them, and chose to make it enough that she wished for them to be happy.

So enchanted and thoroughly distracted, she hadn’t realized she was being watched until she felt a nauseatingly familiar aether close in on her. It was a heavy feeling, like standing in a room that had only moments before been on fire, smoke filling her lungs and weighing her down, oppressive and heated. On reflex, Serella’s hackles raised in anticipation for the source of that uneasy feeling. 

“Ella Bella!” Called the wraith from her past.

Serella didn’t turn her head to look at the woman who had called her in such a tittering, birdsong voice. Her hands curled tighter around her flagon.

“Lady Eveanne.” She replied evenly, eyes fixed on her constellation. 

“You remember me!” The Gridanian noblewoman gasped in exaggerated relief. “Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, my how things have changed!”

“And yet stayed the same.”

For a start, that larksong voice of hers had grated against some of her more benign nightmares, scraping and simpering as it was, talking about Serella and at Serella without speaking with her. Always, _always_ about, _“My little doll might be a little broken, but she’s still made of sturdy porcelain, isn’t she?”_

Little wonder Serella had foregone relationships for so long after she lad left Gridania.

“Why won’t you look at me, little doll?” She crooned.

_You’re the Warrior of Light. You have expectations and titles and a job in the military and you have to be better than breaking her fucking jaw in._

“I’m too busy watching my partner.” Serella admitted, and really, it was true; Aymeric alone was more pleasant to look at, never mind the fact that there were two _other_ people just as stunning as he was.

With her newly formed habit of making a wish upon a star, she begged him to notice her gaze as she took a long pull of her mead. Its sweetness settled on her tongue just as his eyes met hers, bright stars all their own, brilliant blue giving her a warm smile that turned inquiring, gaze drifting.

She hadn’t realized where he was looking until she felt Eveanne’s hand on her arm. She nearly jumped from the contact, and swiftly moved her arm to fold behind her back, out of reach.

“You found a partner?” The noblewoman spoke up in that higher pitch she often took when she was feigning interest in conversation. “Ohh, where…?”

Serella hadn’t realized she would use the opportunity to lean into her personal space, pretending to peer out into the crowd. It was, perhaps, unbecoming to stumble backwards, away from her, but the scent of her perfume— rose hips and lavender— rankled her.

Looking at her was worse.

 _We’re the same height now._ Serella realized, and something about that angered her. Eveanne hadn’t aged a day in the near decade it had been since they had last seen one another, her chestnut hair held back in artful pleats folded over in a delicate hairpin bejeweled to resemble a peacock. The motif continued in her dress, all rich silks of blue, green, and tinges of gold. She looked, as ever, too opulent for her setting. She was the sort of woman who would show up to a funeral in a cherry red ballgown and insist that wearing her black sash with it was what made it _appropriate._

“Ahh, now she looks at me!” Eveanne beamed, clapping her hands together in front of her face once. “And how strange, my little doll is not so little anymore.”

Hands still pressed together, she tilted them to press against her own cheek, scrutinizing Serella. Uninterested in her, Serella turned back toward where Aymeric was now speaking in hushed whispers with Estinien, as if he were hurriedly trying to end the conversation— or perhaps talk Estinien out of something reckless. Or both.

Hyana was conspicuously absent. Serella couldn’t find her in the crowd.

“Was it the little bird in the green dress?” Eveanne asked. “Is it her?”

Serella didn’t answer. She didn’t know how to properly respond, and Eveanne wasn’t worthy of the knowledge anyroad.

“You’re not being properly cared for.” Eveanne continued, and the way the words stretched under her sneer made the way she pursed her lips audible enough that Serella knew exactly what expression she was making without looking. “Dresses don’t suit you anymore. You’re so boxy now.”

She would think that, the petite slip of a woman. Serella recalled a harvest festival attended on her arm, hearing her go on about how no one there dressed to suit their frame— _or can’t afford to!_ She had laughed at her own joke, joined in by the cronies that had wanted some of her influence. Even then, Serella hadn’t understood the joke, beyond just being said to be cruel.

In hindsight, it should have been an informative, illuminating experience on Lady Eveanne Deautimoix overall.

“Such is the way of adventurers and Paladins alike.” Serella shrugged, and frowned deeply when she realized her flagon was empty. She set it aside on the table with a grimace, hating that there was nothing to occupy her hands now. Folding them tightly over her humble olive skirts, her creme sleeves and bust seemed stark, but she had thought her dress lovely. “And any piece of clothing will suit the wearer if it is properly tailored.”

“Ohh, did you learn that on your adventurers?”

“I learned many things. Not the least of which was how to be happy.” Serella hoped and prayed and wished with everything that she was that that would be enough for her to just _leave._

“Were you truly so unhappy with me?” 

“I didn’t even know what happiness _was_ with you.” Serella sneered, at the end of her patience. “I had to turn into a Warrior of Light before I even remembered the concept.”

“Oh, Ella Bella mine,” Eveanne crooned. Then, quick as lightning, darting out like a snake with its fangs bared, her hand caught Serella’s chin and turned her head to face her. “A Warrior of Light. _Finally,_ my broken little doll found her use—”

 _“Let. Go.”_ Serella warned, voice a low snarl, her disgust evident. “Or I _will_ break your arm.”

Eveanne opened her mouth to retort, likely with an, _oh, you wouldn’t hurt me,_ which would be setting herself up for disappointment, really, but then before either of them could really react, Eveanne’s cold fingers left her face. Forcibly. 

Serella blinked owlishly, not entirely certain _when_ Hyana had come over or how much of the conversation she had heard, but it was apparently enough to move her to wrenching Eveanne’s arm away, bending it in such a way that it seemed on the edge of snapping.

“What kind of arrogant little _prick_ do you have to be,” Hyana snarled low, eyes burning with rage. “To try something like that with a _Warrior of Light?”_

Eveanne had never known the threat of danger. In all the time Serella had known her, her privilege had always been enough of a shield to keep most everyone at arm’s length from her. 

Hyana, for a thousand blessings, was not most people.

“Oh, are _you_ her new handler?” Eveanne hissed, unaware that Hyana _would,_ in fact, break her arm.

“Hyana, let her go. It’s alright.” Serella reassured with a tip of her chin.

Hyana didn’t seem keen to let go— for a blessing, Aymeric managed to beat Estinien through the crowd to join them, though the moment his eyes settled on Hyana grasping the woman’s forearm, he stilled.

“Eveanne, if you value the use of your arm, _shut the fuck up.”_ Serella hissed, at least grateful she’d had a wish from some decade past granted in that regard. “No one is my handler— and just because you saw me as your charity pet doesn’t make you one, either.”

She turned kinder eyes to Hyana, still straining with the effort to _not_ break her arm. “Let her go. I promise, it’s alright.”

Hyana still didn’t move, not until their eyes met for a long, long moment. Though she still burned with fury, she threw Eveanne’s arm into her torso.

“I see you near her again, I’ll be licking your blood of of my blade. Are we clear?” Hyana snarled in low warning.

The stillness of the gathering was not lost on Serella. Her ears burned. She had just wanted _mead,_ how did it come to _this?_ Even still, she couldn’t help but marvel at the three of them, all rage wrapped in finery, all upset on her behalf.

That was still something she needed to get used to, she supposed.

In much the same way she had done with Hyana, Aymeric turned gentle when he turned to step at her side. “Are you well?” He asked, his hand warm at the small of her back.

Eveanne gasped. At the sound, instantly, Aymeric’s gaze steeled as it darted to her.

“I know you.” Aymeric said, voice thick with open contempt. “Lady Deautimoix. Just influential enough to buy your way into politics but not important enough to have power over them.” He scoffed. “That you would have the confidence to disrespect a war hero so blatantly offends all sense and sensibility.”

Her heather gray eyes were wide with horror. It was a strange look on her, fear. Serella felt a little bad to take some measure of glee from it.

“I…forgive me, Lord Speak—”

 _“I_ am not the injured party. _She_ has made her intentions clear.” His reply was swift but curt.

Eveanne left, and melted into the crowd with some semblance of shame— or a publicly acceptable facsimile of it, at least.

The noise of the celebrations resumed as quickly as it stopped, and the three closed in on her, all alarmingly gentle.

“You’re alright?” Estinien asked, the most reserved, though his gaze was discerning.

“I’m fine— _really,_ I’m fine.” Serella shrugged them all off. “Really, I’m used to it—”

“Used to _that?”_ Aymeric balked.

“That’s…more or less how relationships have been. Like with her.” She shrugged again, uncomfortable with their shocked gazes. “I was useful. And when I was useful enough, I was rewarded with affection. That’s…that’s how it works, right?”

The silence was sharp and loud in her ears, and it answered for all of them in the wake of their upset.

“I’m breaking both of her arms.” Hyana said, gathering her skirts and turning heel.

“I’ll make sure there are no witnesses.” Estinien mused, already stepping in line with her.

 _“No.”_ Serella and Aymeric said at the same time.

They stopped, however reluctantly.


	26. When Pigs Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hello, I am forever in the camp of "Fordola deserves better than what she's getting," but to avoid me going off on a tangent about that, here's a fix-it fic where she gets to be a Scion post 5.3, where Serella had been forced to take a position of Acting Antecedent after the events of 4.4 onward, but was able to just be a Scion again after everyone was recovered post 5.3. 
> 
> I hope this sparks joy!

When Serella took the mantle of Acting Antecedent as the Archons fell and slept, she had thought it would be a largely symbolic appointment, with the odd coordination between Alliance leaders and the remaining Scions. The thought of that sort of title being so impotent in its use when weighed against what she had to sacrifice to uphold it made her stomach churn, but she _could,_ so she _must,_ so she _did._

Then she thought about it more, about what Minfilia would do, were she still with them all. She thought about what Miniflia would do were she witness to the atrocities the city-states got away with, when they thought themselves safe within their own borders to carry out their misdeeds. What path would she have walked, what action would she have taken, and how would _Serella_ measure up?

 _Then_ Serella began to test the ways her newfound title could be put to work for the good of the people. Sometimes as a sword. Sometimes as a shield. Sometimes as a hand held out in offer of aid, or made into a fist.

This time, she would have to use her words and her wits. 

“I have this…” Serella muttered to herself, pacing in the antechambers to the Blood Sands. “I _have_ to have this.”

She couldn’t screw up something so important. They were sure to argue that her formal demand against the Sultanate and the Syndicate for the release of one Fordola rem Lupis into the custody of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn would be a partisan reach, a dismissal and destruction of their neutrality. _She_ would beg to differ, but then, the Syndicate didn’t get to the positions— and the level of _power—_ that they had by playing by the books. All the more true now that Raubahn was no longer occupying one of its seats.

But Serella had expected this. As a showing of their own hypocrisy, she spread word of the misdeeds and overreaching of the Syndicate in employing the Brass Blades to strap a bomb collar around a nineteen year old girl who had been subjugated and coerced by Imperials into acting on their command. She had thought it would take more for the people of Ul’Dah to be swayed, but then, the more she mentioned the fact that it was with the _Brass Blades_ and not the Immortal Flames that had taken her into custody, and how _highly suspect_ it was that they have such authority, the citizenry began to demand a say in the matter.

The only place with enough seating to hold a public debate was, incidentally, the Colosseum— a fact that Serella intended to capitalize on.

The door to the antechamber creaked open, ever so slightly, and Serella couldn’t hide her surprise when a familiar, pink garbed lalafell woman slipped into the room and closed the door behind her.

“‘Tis I! Your favorite merchant’s daughter, Lady Lilira,” Nanamo said, all smiles and a wink. “I couldn’t stand the thought of not offering some words of encouragement before the debate.”

“You honor me.” She knelt, head bowed, as was expected of her.

When she lifted her head, Nanamo was regarding her with somber eyes, lips pulled into a thin line as though she struggled with the sight of her.

“Minfilia had moments of vulnerability,” She gently reminded the Acting Antecedent. “Moments where she confided in us— all of us. It is no fault of yours that you are _human._ You _can_ lean on us.”

“I am not Minfilia.” Serella’s smile matched the Sultana’s. “But it means much that you would encourage me so.”

“Please, take heart— I’ve been hearing the whispers of the people. They’ve long been tired of the Syndicate’s overreach— and by extension, the Sultanate’s lack of power.” After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped closer and laid a hand over Serella’s. “Though you will walk out with none at your side in a few moments, you are not alone.”

“Aren’t I?”

“Not at all. The Alliance has been searching for a way to bring this to discussions besides— or so said the Lord Speaker of Ishgard, last I had him over for tea. You have allies here, in the stands today— with their own opening arguments, prior to yours and in support of your demand. For my part, I will do what I can to sway the public and my cabinet both.”

That surprised her greatly. Though the Alliance was as one against the Empire, it was hardly a secret that there were disagreements among the policies and procedures of each city-state, and their response— or lack thereof— to the struggles of the people. If they thought this was bad enough to band together on…mayhap she was finally getting through to them. Mayhap the rejoining of Ala Mhigo and Ishgard into their ranks was the catalyst for change they needed.

_Good._

“That’s all I can hope for. Thank you, Your Grace.”

Nanamo didn’t tarry: she couldn’t. But she did give Serella’s hand a squeeze before dashing back through the door, doubtless to be changed into the finery befitting her station, in anticipation for this debate.

It didn’t take long for them to call her. Standing before the closed door, she waited for it to open to step out. On the other side, she could hear Merlwyb’s closing statements in staunch support of her proposition, nearing the end, by the sound of it. The following applause all but confirmed it; it was almost time, then. With a deep breath— and a prayer for Minfilia to guide her, wherever she might be— she stepped out into the arena as the doors swung out for her a few moments later.

Her experience as a Paladin had made her familiar with the Blood Sands— and the Colosseum itself. Her old stomping grounds, where her myth was _nearly_ as looming as Raubahn’s, though not near as lengthy or impressive. It boded well for her that the feeling of stepping out from the dimly lit halls and into the bright, brilliant Colosseum itself wasn’t disorienting.

As her eyes adjusted, she spied the Syndicate sat behind a long table, draped in silk embossed with the Ul’Dahn flag and poised high enough that they towered, ever so slightly, above where the debate pulpit had been set up. It came across as hideously ostentatious of them, though she withheld comment until she could properly take her place. Behind the Syndicate, in the Sultanate’s throne overlooking the sands themselves, Nanamo presided, dressed in all the frippery of her station, as though she had never stolen away to offer words of encouragement. The Alliance leaders sat in the tiered audience seats just below the throne in a liminal space almost directly behind the Syndicate’s table.

All eyes on her. No going back.

“Acting Antecedent.” Lolorito addressed, voice drenched in smarm and arrogance, as ever. “We have heard supporting statements regarding your formal request for release of Fordola rem Lupis into your custody.” He folded his arms over his chest, face otherwise impossible to see for the mask he wore over his eyes. He still looked smug, regardless. “As always, we are happy to work alongside the Scions of the Seventh Dawn and our Allies both. In the same way I extended my apologies to the Alliance leaders in attendance, I must also, on behalf of the Syndicate, extend them to you as well, for the choice in venue.”

Serella avoided grinning, instead gestured out to the audience with a sweep of her hand.

“The only venue that can fit enough of Ul’Dah’s people to represent themselves is a _Colosseum_ where they are meant to be entertained and distracted. Your apology should rightly be laid at the feet of your constituents. Not mine.”

At the uproar in the stands, Lolorito’s lips thinned. Even through the shield over his eyes, she could feel the head of his glare intensify.

“You are, at the very least, appropriately dressed for the Colosseum!” Lolorito noted her Paladin armor, gleaming to a shine in the torchlight of the Blood Sands, lips curled into a snarl.

“I come to you as the Acting Antecedent of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn,” She began. “But that title is only temporary. Before I am anything else, I am a free Paladin. My soul crystal was bestowed upon me by the Sultanate’s own shield bearers, earned through service to Ul’Dah’s people. All I have ever done, I have done in the name of justice, and the name of protecting those who cannot protect themselves.”

“Do you imply that Fordola rem Lupis cannot protect herself?” Another of the Syndicate asked, flabbergasted at the notion.

“Few could, against a bomb strapped to their neck.” She retorted. “Fewer still would even _try,_ given it was put there by the _Brass Blades,_ who, if I recall correctly, do not answer to the Alliance, but to _you.”_

The murmur from the crowd was a low roar, but its tone was undeniable: few were pleased with the notion of such a cruel weapon as it was, but being put on a prisoner of war, and by someone outside of direct Alliance orders, no less, rankled the citizenry for the implications it had. Who would be safe among them from it, given who was responsible?

“We decided swift action had to be taken—”

“Out of jurisdiction of the Alliance.” Serella replied. “Paint me as one who comes to you as an opportunist all you like, I come to you through proper channels and after following appropriate protocol. The Syndicate is not Ul’Dah, and the Syndicate should not get to have unobstructed authority to defy both the Alliance and the legalities of the battlefield to collar a nineteen year old girl when she was at her most vulnerable, when it was presumed that no one would be in her corner.”

“She is working alongside the Scions, is she not?” Lolorito snapped.

“With a bomb collar and a handler. That were put there by the _Brass Blades._ On order of _the Syndicate.”_ Serella enunciated herself very, very clearly. “Which is why we are _here._ The moment I was informed of this development, I took what steps were needed to see such a grave dismissal of human rights undone.”

“She is a danger—”

“For the resonant? The artificial Echo she bears?” Serella asked. “The selfsame abilities she has put to use— even _before_ threat of explosion for disobedience. I will remind you she saved the _entirety_ of the newly formed Ala Mhigan parliament under no one’s orders. She _chose_ to do that, _willingly_ surrendered her blade before it was asked of her, and outright asked to be taken back to her cell at the conclusion of the battle against Lakshmi.”

“You have a point to all of this, I am certain.” A bored Syndicate member replied around a yawn.

“My _point_ is that there is no point for the treatment Fordola rem Lupis has received— even more notable prisoners of war that have committed worse crimes than she have not been treated so harshly by the Alliance. A standard has been established, and the Syndicate has willfully ignored it, as it always has, when it is most convenient for them.”

The cheering from the crowd rivaled some of her best matches in the Sands. Uproarious and unanimous, the people cheered. So raucous were the people, Lolorito had to spend several minutes seething quietly, staring down at Serella. She met his stare with every onze of ire she had in her body— which at that point, was likely a frightening amount.

She had planned for this meeting. Planned, and prepared, and tried to think of every single possible outcome that she could counter. _Why_ she had the foresight to bring a porxie with her all the way from fucking Norvrandt escaped her at the moment, but what mattered was that she had one and that Lolorito was such a smug little swine that he had thought himself beyond her reproach, unable to combat him in a matter of public debate on government policy, that he had the utter nerve to say the words, “I will release Fordola rem Lupis to the Scions when _pigs fly!”_

“Swear it.” She said in the ensuing silence.

“Wh-what?” Lolorito sputtered.

“Swear to me, under the eyes of your people, right now, that you will release Fordola rem Lupis to Scion custody when pigs fly.”

“Must you commit to making such jokes? How inappropriate—”

“I’m not joking.” Her eyes narrowed. _“Swear it.”_

“…Fine. I’ll call your bluff.” Lolorito spat, one hand over his heart, the other raised in vow. “I do swear, Fordola rem Lupis will be in the custody of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn when pigs fly. Now then, if there is no further—”

Even before taking the temporary mantle as Acting Antecedent, Serella’s hands had made many a shape to help others. Sometimes, they were held out in friendship, sometimes clenched into a fist.

Just this once, her hands offered a flying pig.

“Angelo, to me.” She said softly, and opened her pack.

The porxie, delighted to have come along on a trip while Alisaie had worked odd jobs around Mor Dhona, fluttered out of her pack with a happy little snort.

The crowd gasped. Angelo flapped about happily around her head. Lolorito gawked, jaw slack, at the pig. Which was, in fact, _flying._

“It’s an automaton.” He sputtered. “It _has_ to be, you witch—”

“Angelo, greet.” Serella said, and pointed straight at the Syndicate table. 

Snuffling all the while, he zipped over, sniffing and snorting each member one by one. One of the members, delighted at the warm little porxie, offered it scritches between his long ears, prompting him to pause a bit and preen for her. At her whistle, Angelo returned dutifully to her side, perched on her shoulder. 

“That is no automaton,” the won over Syndicate member cooed. “My little dog at home is just as playful!” She clapped her hands. “It seems we have an agreement to honor, Lord Lolorito.”

“It— I— that is—!” Lolorito could barely get the words out between grinding his teeth and seething as he was.

“If you want a more symbolic response, rather than a literal one,” Serella mused in the wake of his infuriated quivering. “I _am_ capable of casting aero under your seat, Lord Lolorito.”

Later, when Serella received the key to Fordola’s cell and was escorted by engineers to assist in the removal of the collar, Fordola asked her two questions: how in the hells did she managed to convince them to do this, and why did she do it at all?

The second question was the easiest to answer: because it was the right thing to do. The former took almost the entire trip to Mor Dhona to explain, though Angelo sat in Fordola’s arms, snuffling happily at her dazed petting, certainly helped to clarify a few things.

“You called him a pig.” Fordola said after a long moment. When Serella looked up, she was trying to hide a smile.

“Not at all. I reminded him that he _is_ a pig.”

It was nice, to see the girl laugh, to be allowed to be young and silly, nicer still for her to know that she was under no threat and had no master. Just as she deserved.


	27. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Serella never, ever wanted Aymeric to see her as a Dark Knight.
> 
> So naturally, that's exactly what happens.
> 
> cw: combat, depictions of violence bc they're fighting mobs, but otherwise this is resolution and understanding and angst with a happy ending!

A part of negotiations between Dravania and Ishgard involved their continued collaboration, in both peace talks, as well as pushing back the last vestiges of Nidhogg’s enraged brood. The latter, however, happened with dwindling occurrence as time went on. Dwindling, but not entirely  _ ceased, _ at least for now.

So when Aevis descended on what should have been a diplomatic meeting between Vidofnir speaking on her father’s authority, the Lord Speaker of Ishgard speaking on authority of his city, it was only meet that he raised his blade in her defense. It bode well that his beloved had accompanied him for this conference.

“Warrior of Light, are you with me?” Aymeric asked her as he readied his sword.

When he turned to Serella, he could not bite back a proud smile at the sight of her already having her blade drawn and shield high.

“As ever. Vidofnir, go!” She barked over her shoulder.

“I would not leave thee to struggle without aid—” Vidofnir widened her stance, wings flared out in warning to the encroaching aevis who snapped and snarled as they krept nearer.

“Then help us by protecting your little ones.” Serella insisted. “We’ll be fine.  _ Go!” _

Neither of them turned to the dragon again, but the gust that swept their coats against their legs told of her retreat. With a nod between Knight and Paladin, they braced for battle. When one of the aevis attempted to break ranks and give chase, Aymeric sprinted to meet it instead, Naegling carving through its neck. The blue of the blade was almost entirely stained with crimson when he ripped it out of the wound it had made. The scalekin reeled back with a gurgling howl, thrashing even as it fell, dying.

Chaos erupted. Driven all the more mad for the blood freshly spilled, the remaining flock of aevis, five in total, launched themselves in a frenzy. 

Two bore down on him, charging together. Though Aymeric managed to leap to the side and knock one of them back into a second, a third closed in behind him, teeth bared in preparation to taste his flesh.

The air pressure around him changed suddenly enough that his ears popped. The temperature rose with a flash of brilliant gold light. When that light spread beneath him, he leapt back in time to avoid the blazing aetherial blade that shot up from the ground, tall as a pillar, and speared the aevis that would have claimed his life. The impact of the blow sent the scalekin skyward, and it landed with such a force that the ground beneath them quaked. The Confiteor spell took the second aevis by surprise, and Aymeric closed in to capitalize on the opportunity, piercing its skull with a downward stab of his blade.

A sharp cry of pain rang out from behind him— he whirred around in time to see Serella be flung several yalms away, her shield clattering to the ground where she had been struck. One of the remaining aevis must have recovered and took the opening she had made in saving him. As it closed in on her, it limped— the trail of blood it left in its wake confirmed she had at least managed to maim it before she was blown back.

Heart in his throat and blood roaring in his ears, Aymeric turned to sprint toward where she lay crumpled upon the crag. If he could at least get her shield to her, keep them off of her long  enough to recover— 

He barely caught an aevis by its gnashing teeth before they closed in on his shoulder, Naegling forcibly wedged within its jaw kept the scalekin at bay, but the impact forced him to the ground. With the weight of the beast bearing down on him and his arms burning from the effort of keeping those jaws from closing in, Aymeric grit his teeth and fought to free himself. Though he saw the last of the aevis lumbering toward him, he focused more on getting free of the one pinning him down; if he could get to Serella, then that was all that mattered, he  _ had _ to get to her before they did—

A shadow passed over him. A chill rippled along the length of his spine. The noise of crackling aether and the scent of ozone and salted earth. Where the Confiteor spell that Serella had shot off had felt like the oxygen in the area momentarily leaving,  _ this _ felt like the air had grown dense. It reminded Aymeric of how the air felt with an encroaching storm, heavy, still, and thick with anticipation of rain or snow. Familiar and quiet and calming.

The aevis that had been gnashing against his blade was forcibly knocked away from him. Hauling himself to his feet, he anticipated blocking the second aevis that had been approaching, shocked to see it was being successfully held off by what he could only describe as a shadow clad in armor, wielding a claymore. The darkness flowed and bent in a familiar dance; even if the motions were nothing like when she wielded a sword and shield and its stance was completely different, even just looking at the shadow made Aymeric think:  _ that is Serella.  _ The swings of its darkened blade were precise but weighty, each impact bursting with purple and ebon aether that rippled and warped around and through the aevis it struck. Though Aymeric only looked on for the span of a breath, it felt like time had slowed, even as he had turned to face the aevis that had been thrown off of him.

Before he could even get line of sight on the beast, the ground quaked again. Time seemed to catch up to him in a rush with the impact of something mighty crashing to the earth, and his eyes settled on the scene. Pinning it to the ground as it squirmed in a frenzy was a familiar blade— long, smoky steel with glinting blue adornments, he recognized it instantly: Dainslaif. Serella loomed over the scalekin, her armor dark with blood and shadows. He could not see her face with her back to him as it was, but something about the way she casually reached for the blade’s handle and ripped it across the aevis’ neck to cleanly decapitate the dying aevis came across as  _ cold. _

A feeling that crept into the silence that reigned in the aftermath of the fight. She stayed still, in that position, greatsword still firmly in her grasp, her back to him. Though the wind blew her hair and the coat of her armor, she was otherwise eerily still. In his periphery, Aymeric could see that figure cloaked in shadow turn to face her, almost expectantly, as if  _ waiting _ for her to command it. 

Then, it began to move toward her, steps languid but hushed.  _ Familiar. _ Heart flying into his throat again, Aymeric moved to run those scant fulms to her, when its gaze was turned to  _ him. _ There was something about it— something intrinsically  _ her _ about the shade that froze him to the spot. Her blue iris was reflected in those eyes, the exact same shade that he so adored losing himself in.

The reminder that  _ this is her, too _ was enough to inspire him to move again, curious but unafraid. And the shadow  _ watched _ him, as he drew closer to where she stood. Watched, until Serella swayed in place. In an instant, both he and the shadow snapped their focus to her. With unnatural speed, the shadow reached her first, but that did not stop his advance; nothing else mattered but ensuring she was all right.

“Ella…?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, hand tentatively reaching out to close the distance. When the space between them was down to scant ilms, her aether crackled again, a riot of violet and red rippling along her armor. At her flinch, Aymeric and the shadow both retracted their hands as if the kaleidoscope of luminosity inside her threatened to burn them. 

“I’m fine.” She lied to them both.

“Fine with that cracked rib of yours?” The shadow scoffed.

When Aymeric reached out to stabilize her, it spoke again, sharply: “Have you not done enough?”

_“Stop,_ Esteem.” Serella cut her shadow off swiftly, tone brooking no argument. “He’s done nothing wrong, and we both know it. I’m fine.”

"Oh, so you're _ fine _ with being put last? Again?" The shadow— Esteem? — snorted. "By  _ him?"  _

There was very little that could make him physically recoil as though he were a wretched and awful thing, but the thought that he had done irreparable harm to her was enough to inspire that distance, that hesitation.

The tension left her shoulders, slumped as if in defeat. She did not respond— which, he supposed, was a response all its own. He felt ill.

“Shadow, fall behind me.” Serella beckoned in a tired voice.

The shadow paused to look at him again. Though the feeling of something not-quite-there scrutinizing him was unnerving, he stood his ground and did not look away. It was a part of her. He had naught to fear from it, he saw that now. Something seemed to satisfy the armor glad darkness, or at least placate it, as it turned and knelt before Serella, sword stuck into the ground as a knight kneels before its queen. That crackling aether remained, but calmed into something more akin to gentle ocean waves idly lapping at their shores, bridging the distance between Serella and her shadow as it melted into the earth. As it sunk lower, lower, into the earth, until the pool of inky darkness stretched toward her feet and clung to her heels, giving her back the shadow she had cast away to save him.

_ This _ was what he had been raised to fear and hate?  _ This _ was the villainy of darkness and sin that he had been taught made a Dark Knight? This protective shade, this Guardian in the dark,  _ of _ the dark, was what should be expunged from Ishgard?  _ This _ was the face of all the evils in the night? Impossible.

It was  _ beautiful. _

“Sorry.” She said quietly, and swayed all the more as she turned to face him.

Her eyes were blue.

“What on  _ earth _ do you have to be sorry for?”

“Didn’t want you to see this.” She mumbled, gesturing weakly at herself. “Never wanted you to see it. But I’d rather you live and hate me tha—”

When she tried to turn her body away as she spoke, her words died off with a yelp of pain. She staggered and clutched at the side that she had landed on when thrown. Before he had even realized he had moved, Aymeric had caught her as she stumbled, and eased them both to the ground when her knees buckled. 

“Shh, shh, I have you,” He cooed in her ear as he knelt into the earth and did what he could to keep the pressure off of her injured side.

“Never wanted you to see—” Serella hissed through her teeth, hands fumbling to press flat against her ribs. 

He could not see her face with her head bent as it was. As she began to weave starlight around her injury, she let out a pained whimper at a worrying  _ pop _ from under her platemail. Shifting to let her rest her weight primarily against his chest and ease her weight off of her healing side entirely, he lifted a hand to smooth her hair down and press a kiss to her scalp.

“See what? That I had naught to fear but mine own prejudice?” He held her face with the hand that had brushed her hair away and used it to guide her into looking at him gently once her healing magic had tapered off. Despite the situation, he huffed a laugh. “A lesson you have had to teach me twice now. Would that it had taken less than this for me to see. I am so sorry.”

“I didn’t  _ want _ you to see.” Serella said with a laugh, eyes filled with tears. She was smiling, in that relieved and unreserved way that crinkled the corners of her eyes and caused her tears to flow. “I was sure you would hate me—”

“I can hate you no more than I can hate breathing.” He whispered fiercely, and pressed their foreheads together. “Your shadow— Esteem, was it? — Also had no qualms taking me to task for how I have failed you.”

“You—”

_ Didn’t _ , Aymeric tasted her denial on her tongue when he crushed his mouth to hers.

“In my desperation to keep my promise to you, I fear I have done exactly that, in leaving you to think that I hold you  _ beneath _ anything—  _ anything _ on this star or any other.”

“But we  _ promised _ to put everything else ahead of us!” Serella wept, even as she kept smiling.

“In duty, aye— and we have. And we will.” Aymeric brushed her hair back when the wind swept it in her face again. Even as her eyes were still too bright, still blue, he refused to look away. “That does  _ not _ mean that I love anyone or anything more than you— I can’t even fathom doing so.” With another kiss to her forehead, he hugged her closer. “I’m so,  _ so _ sorry I ever left you to doubt that— and worse, did so because I lacked the words for what I felt.”

Serella closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as if letting his words seep into her soul. When she opened them again, they were mismatched. He smiled around a sigh of relief.

_ “There _ is my world.” He whispered against her lips in a kiss. “My heart.” He moved to her nose to kiss the tip. “My everything.” He kissed her forehead before he all but crushed her close.

Vidofnir flew back to their side with her little hatchlings in tow once the winds had calmed, and found them just like that, with Aymeric holding close his Warrior of Light and Darkness both, as Serella used healing magic to attempt to ease the discomfort. Content that the threat had passed, she laid herself close and shielded them under her wing. The little dragonlings, all chirping and cooing and worried, settling around their shoulders, in Serella’s lap, looped around Aymeric’s wyrm torque, rumbling in a way they hoped would help, protecting their protectors, as their ancestors had before them.

Adrift in the Sea of Clouds, the bridges between man and dragon, and Lord Commander and Warrior of Light, continued to mend.


	28. Irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> vague 3.1 spoilers for the True Brothers of the Faith questline- Aymeric and Serella have a difficult conversation about living, the want to do so, and let themselves be vulnerable in a way that they aren't typically vulnerable.
> 
> cw: mentions of a lack of a want to stay alive, but no reference to suicide or the attempt thereof

Once the Brothers of the True Faith had been arrested, the hostages tended, and the crowds dispersed, Serella  _ almost _ felt like she could at last  _ breathe _ for the first time that day. The feeling was short lived, however, as Aymeric had managed to tear open enough of his stitches that he had near fainted at her side — though she had managed to catch him and keep him upright long enough to help him stumble back to his quarters. 

Only when the head chirurgeon ushered her out to treat him did Serella  _ truly _ breathe.

All the same, she found herself keeping Lucia company — and in large part keeping her  _ sanity —  _ as the First Commander worked to fill the administrative duties Aymeric would have otherwise tended to himself. Serella couldn't fault the knight's anger, punctuated only by the particularly harsh scratching of a quill pressed down too hard and the occasional muttered curse.

Pacing had helped her work out her own frenetic energy, until Lucia had snapped at her to stop  _ moving. _ Circuitry repair on one of her turrets kept her hands busy, even if she couldn't stop her leg bouncing as she sat.

When the head chirurgeon stomped out of the Lord Commander’s quarters grumbling about “fools, the lot of you,” and, “Ruffians of Light, more like. Terrible influence, _terrible,_ ” and many other...less than endearing things muttered _almost_ endearingly, Serella volunteered to step in and see to Aymeric herself. Lucia found the suggestion sound — it allowed her to continue working unimpeded while ensuring _Aymeric_ wasn’t working at _all_. 

Burdened with a tray of tea, dinner, and medicine, Serella’s task was duly assigned.

Unsurprisingly, when she stepped through the ajar door to his quarters, she caught Aymeric attempting to read smuggled missives— and had even been rummaging around for a pen and inkwell to sign off on them. Propped up on pillows as he was, he looked marginally better than the last time they had been in this position.  _ Marginally. _

She felt no less like she were about to burst at the seams as she knocked on the open door to announce herself.

Instantly, Aymeric made a poor attempt to hide the papers as he looked up at her like a child with his hand caught in the sweets bowl, eyes wide as he desperately attempted to shuffle the documents into the drawer of his nightstand. The arch of her brow must have been sufficient to convey how little patience she had for it, as he sheepishly stacked the reports in a neat pile and set them on his bedside table.

“Mistress Arcbane—” He cleared his throat.

“Nowadays, you only call me that when you think me angry with you.” Serella said, fond even in her exasperation. “I’m not some school teacher ready to rap your knuckles with a yalm stick,” after a moment to mull it over, she added, “though  _ Lucia _ certainly might be at this point.”

“Ah.” Aymeric winced. “I imagine she is...displeased.”

“In her words: ‘I am not angry with the Lord Commander, only disappointedly unsurprised.’” She mimicked the First Commander a little  _ too _ well. She offered him a wincing smile at the sight of him subtly shrinking into the pillows. “I felt bad  _ for _ you.”

“Anger...would have been preferred.” He admitted, squirming as much as his wounds would allow.

“That’s precisely why  _ I’m _ here and she isn’t!” Serella chirped, a little too brightly to pass as natural, and moved further into the room to set the tray on his bedside table. “Now then,” she held out her hand expectantly. “Those documents, my lord.”

“ _ You _ only call me that when you have me at a disadvantage.” He grumbled but did not relinquish the stack of papers. “But...I am well enough—”

A startling lack of patience on her part had her voice drop down into a lower, almost threatening register.

“Either you can hand me the documents to give Lucia later, or Lucia can come in here  _ now _ and forcibly take them fr—” Aymeric pressed the papers into her hands before she had finished speaking, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Wise decision, friend; arguably, the wisest you’ve made in the last few hours.”

Despite her best efforts, her otherwise conversational tone had a hard edge to it, and she busied herself with pulling up a chair to hide her wince. She didn’t come for a fight, after all.

“There was little time for aught else but action.” He replied, though she still heard the distant guilt in his tone.

“I’m sure there was enough time to work out the logistics of fighting six or so men at once, on your own, in your condition.” Serella said plainly, taking a seat once she had situated the chair acceptably close to the bed. “And to come to the conclusion that you  _ shouldn’t _ .”

“You needed to get to the hostages—” Aymeric tried, but the stillness in the aftermath of such a heart pounding fiasco made Serella just jumpy enough to cut him off.

“I need  _ you _ —” her voice cracked, and a part of her wanted to just leave it lie there. It would be the most honest thing she had ever said to him. Too honest. “—To be more mindful of your limits.” When he opened his mouth to retort, she added, “I’ll mind mine as much as you mind yours.”

_ That _ got a flinch out of Aymeric. 

“I would not see you die—”

“Then mind your limits more.” Her frown deepened, and she glanced away to ease the intensity of her glare. “You had the foresight to drop the gate behind you— barring  _ me _ from getting to you, and thought it was a good idea—”

"I was willing to lay my life down to buy you time—"

"I'm not willing to lose you!" Serella snapped, too harshly.

Harsh enough her words rang in the ensuing silence. She looked away, miserable that she just couldn't keep her mouth shut,  _ hating _ that his recklessness was so,  _ so _ familiar, so alike her own.

“I thought you realized by now how much you  _ matter _ to me." She whispered, even as she still couldn't bring herself to look at him.

"I...will admit, the thought did occur to me, how cross you would be over my recklessness." Aymeric's voice was quiet, words tentative. "Though I suppose I only thought of it when I had nearly been cornered."

Something about his words made her heart fly into her throat, constricting it. She swallowed around it.

"If my ire is what saves you, I'll have to be cross with you more often."

"It wasn't."

The silence returned, no less heavy but weighted down with implication and anticipation and  _ fear _ and  _ want—  _

Serella thought to make a joke of his use of an informal sentence contraction. It was her easiest out, the coward's path, but she would rather take it than hear him utter the words she couldn't bring herself to want to hear from him.

A touch at her hand— soft, but only just familiar enough to leave her aching at the contact— inspired her to look at him in shock. Aymeric must have seen something in her eyes to make him bold; he settled his hand in a gently sure grip around hers.

"I thought of you— and how desperately I needed to see you again. To know you were safe. To have you beside me. When I did, my victory was assured."

If this was an irenic gesture to make amends and rid himself of her anger, she might actually hit him. Much as she wanted to dismiss his words as nothing but pretty little things meant to placate her...she knew better.

"...If you have more to say on it," she began slowly, choosing her words carefully. 

Aymeric seemed to be holding his breath in anticipation. He seemed ready to burst with— with what, exactly? Confession? A plea for forgiveness? Much as she wanted to know…

"I will not hear it from one so bent on dying." She finished. With a shuddering breath, she admitted, "My own wants, I keep from you for the same reason. I wouldn't offer you someone who lacked a want to live— I wouldn't offer that in friendship, or aught else. Certainly not to you, of all people. Offer me no less in kind. I already can't bear the thought of you not being here."

Her head hurt. Her  _ heart _ hurt. All Serella wanted was at least the illusion of freedom that could let her just  _ admit _ she wanted, was wanting, wanting  _ him _ . 

"You help me want to." Aymeric admitted softly, eyes drifting to the window. "I grew up accepting that I would likely die young, on the battlefield. I suppose it is why I am as reckless as I am with myself. But you…" 

He shook his head. His eyes shone too bright for the low lamplight. They glittered like gems in the setting sun.

"I cannot fathom a world where you are not in it. I do not want to."

"I get that. I do." Serella studied their joined hands, and after a moment of debate with herself, shifted their grip to lace their fingers together. "I half took up adventuring looking for a good death. And now that I'm here, with so many I cherish as family, I'm—" She swallowed when her voice cracked. "I'm scared to want to live, even as you help make me want it."

He squeezed her hand. When she lifted her gaze, he was quietly studying her, and a noise escaped the back of his throat when he swallowed— he was struggling with this just as much as she. 

An odd comfort, knowing they were so well matched, even as it terrified her

Finally, when his eyes weren't shining quite so much, his lips parted on a breath.

"Though I already have a promise to keep to you...I would ask one of you."

"Oh?"

"Be brave with me." Aymeric begged, voice quiet and trembling. "And  _ want." _

Both the easiest, and easily the most monumental request he had ever made of her. But he inspired that want in her already. It was his right to ask.

"...Alright." Serella agreed in a whisper, and swallowed her own tears. "Alright."


	29. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> following the level 50 DRK questline, Serella has to have an uncomfortable conversation...with herself.

Whitebrim was well behind her before Serella had even managed to begin to process what she had walked away from. What she carried with her when she did.

What had always been there, she supposed.

Everything hurt as she trudged through the snow, in a deeper than muscle way. It was something of a curse, then, as it always had been, when the snow eventually gave way to flowers and eternal spring. The snow had given her a physical justification for feeling as numb as she did, at least.

The Twelveswood had a habit of destroying her refuge, so she supposed she had no one to blame but herself for it. As ever.

Apkallu Falls was blessedly empty, the setting sun gilding the water and rocks, warmed the grass she stood in, and was, save for the rush of the water, silent. It would do.

"I think you stopped being Fray a long time ago." She whispered to the dark.

_ When he died. _ Something deep and dark and  _ her _ answered.

Serella closed her eyes. There was no voice— there was only the feeling that someone was speaking to her, and she understood what they were saying. Despite straining to reach, there was still no voice, no one to name. Not this time, at least— she had heard it, when Fray had been something to be hated and expunged from her, something to put all the blame and all the negativity. Someone  _ else _ and  _ other _ where she could bury anything dark and gnarled and ugly in her so it wasn't a part of her anymore. 

It was a disservice to Fray, whoever he had been, and a disservice to herself both. All it brought was harm.

"You had form, for a time." Serella spoke. "Why not now?"

_ You seemed confident in what I was. So that was the shape I took. Now, you question it. Question me. And now I have no form. _

"When I thought you the manifest of my anger and bitterness, you looked like Ilberd." 

She recalled the moment where she had nearly cleaved the walking corpse when he had removed his helm, though his confusion at his appearance had been enough to stay her blade.

_ I am you. _ Said the darkness.

"You only looked like me when I saw you as all the things I hated about myself. My failings." 

Her chest was tight. Her hands shook. Even clenching them into fists didn't halt the trembling. She felt on the brink of a discovery she both craved and dreaded, but that fear of knowing only compelled her to not remain in the dark. She  _ needed _ to know.

_ The path you walk is lined with death. Walk it with both eyes open, or not at all. _

"I thought I understood what you are, at the start. And my reckless assumptions shaped you, twisted you. I'm sorry."

_ Now she starts to see. What do I look like, to you? _

She didn't know. They were not there.

"What are you, first? I want to know you before I see you."

_ I am you. And I love you. _

"Contradictory statements." She frowned, even as she kept her eyes closed. "Try again."

Even without a "voice," well and truly speaking, she could tell they had sighed.

_ I'm the part of you that remembers why you started. The part of you that wants to be left to the business of being. That part of you that wants to be safe, and happy, and loved. I'm the one that knows that you deserve that, unconditionally. _

The voice— she heard it again. Different, but familiar. That voice was given form, as the words were spoken to her heart, she understood it as her heart well and truly speaking back to her, saying all the things she hadn't been able to hear, couldn't bear to hear or believe.

The voice was not hers anymore. Its form was not  _ her _ anymore.

"Shadow, walk with me." She called.

She heard the shifting of armor but not the hammer of footfalls in the grass. She felt as two and one at once, split, fraying, but connected. Her frown deepened I'm— concentration. The tethers reformed. She was just as much as she always was, but what she was had shifted. What made her  _ be _ had become more than just herself. She saw herself standing in that empty clearing, eyes closed, and she saw nothing at all.

"Was it so hard to picture you loving yourself," The voice asked, aloud in the clearing. "That you had to make it  _ him?" _

Serella hasn't heard that voice in a long time, and never like this. She was used to hearing that voice shaped by a smile, or floating on a song. That voice told her bedtime stories when she was young, and had said farewell with a plea for her to be strong, when she was still too small to hold his hand up in her own. 

When she opened her eyes, her sense of self had returned— she was only her, and her vision was only hers, and a man with deep, warm brown skin greeted her. He was a little taller than her, still, though she couldn't tell if she had remembered his height correctly or if she had just  _ needed _ him to be taller than her, if only by a half head or so. With hair groomed into neat, immaculate dreadlocks, all artfully tied back in a loose half ponytail, and eyes were a deeper blue than the clearest ocean on the balmiest day, despite not having seen him in nearly two decades, Serella would know her Da anywhere.

"You said you loved me unconditionally." She shrugged. "I couldn't think of anyone else who would."

"Yourself?"

"Certainly not." 

A snort, incredulous and frustrated, escaped him. 

"I'm not some replacement for your dead paternal figure." He said with a dismissive flick of his hand. "I'm your  _ Esteem." _

"I know. But I can't think of those things in anyone's voice but his."

Serella took the time to study him, the scars he had earned in his days as a pirate, slashes across his face in clean lines pulled and pinched in the wake of his scowl. She did not see him as a replacement— she would never have been able to think of her Da with that expression. She wasn't sure his face could even make it, when he had still been alive.

"I am  _ not _ him."

"You're right. And I don't need you to be. Esteem," She tested the name, spoke power to it to give it to this form. "You're...just trying to convince me he was right, that's all."

Esteem's expression eased into something more pensive, somber.

"Will you see me as yourself someday?" He asked.

"I'll keep trying to. It's all I can promise."

"I forgive you." He said, and she couldn't look at him anymore. "I forgive you."

"Shadow, fall behind me," She bade quietly, and turned her back.

There was no one else in the clearing, but then, there never had been. She didn't linger.

_ You will never escape your shadow. _ Esteem reminded her, voice distant, tired.

_ Good, _ Serella thought, and then the clearing had no one at all.


	30. Splinter - Explicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spoiler free examination of Aymeric's denial of his feelings during the course of Heavensward, and how desperate he is to avoid admitting that such feelings even exist. A bit of a solo session for our boy, here, so I hope smut is what you ordered.

It was strange and frustrating to Aymeric, to feel as though he had no sanctuary in his own mind. 

Strange and frustrating and  _ inaccurate _ , he knew; though he was plagued by visions of what he had endured in his time at the Vault— and even darker visions of scenarios that either could have been or could yet be, they were not a constant, and he could typically dispel them upon waking. He could cope with his demons. He had done so all his life. That he now had more of them was of no consequence. 

It was his  _ affections _ that threatened to consume him. 

On nights too often and too painful, and growing in distressing regularity, Aymeric would dream of the warm body of a dear friend lying beside him, would see her long hair splayed across the pillows like brushstrokes of ink on his bed, would watch eyes the color of earth and sea glittering with moonlight and mischief in equal measure. He would dream of waking to Serella beside him, would dream of sleepily reaching out to find she was awake and smiling and  _ warm _ . 

In his dreams they would often simply talk and enjoy their mutual comfort. She would paint vivid pictures in his mind of far flung places he had never seen— though come morning he would realize they were simply tales she had told him in the waking world. He would feel her fingers softly, idly stroke his arm, his chest, his hair. If he spoke of his frustrations or his grief, she held him sweetly. 

He often told her of his heart then, in that way that one is wholly honest in his dreams. He would often embrace her there, stroke her hair, touch her face, anything to anchor him to that moment, to  _ her _ , in the vain hope that this time,  _ this time _ it would be real. 

When he would wake, cold and alone, he would realize that the conversations felt as real as they did, because they were tales she had told him in the waking world, sat on the other side of his desk, conversing as friends. Every time, he felt immense guilt for his mind having twisted it into something it was not— twisted  _ her _ into someone that she was not. Surely, if she knew of his dreams of affection and mutual comfort and companionship with her, she would never view him the same. Halone knew that he most assuredly did not.

Desperate to remember that Serella was only ever his friend— and that being his friend was always,  _ always _ more than enough, for he felt no less cherished for it— he would put up his walls all the higher in an effort to seal his heart away. His shored up defenses fell at her feet, every time, when she would next come to his office with a warm smile and inquiries on his well being. He would lie awake at night, praying that tonight, Fury grant him peace,  _ not another dream of her. _

Such nights of dreamless sleep were fewer and fewer with each passing sennight. Even as he begged for not another dream, when he would drift off and find himself in her arms, he could do naught but sink into her, every time, helpless and in need of warmth.

She always felt warm beneath his hands, this conjured version of her, but his mind could never get the details quite right— was her hair soft, or more silky? Were her calloused hands smooth or rough? It changed depending on how long it had been since he had last seen her in person. 

Were his dreams born of arousal, he could dismiss them— and on the rare occasion that they  _ were _ , he did— but it was those all consuming and all too frequent dreams of  _ yearning _ that robbed him of sense and sleep. Of the cruel illusion that she loved him, that the barriers between them had disappeared. That he was  _ hers _ .

Tonight, they lie together in his bed, the duvet pulled up to their shoulders— the chill of the night found no purchase in their cocoon of warmth, slotted together as they were. Their legs tangled as they lie on their sides facing one another, and he shivered pleasantly at the way her fingers lightly stroked at his arm.

_ Wouldn’t it be nice, _ Serella said in the dark of his mind.  _ If you let yourself love me? _

The question had startled him into alertness, jolted him upright in bed with a gasp, chest heaving. Moonbeams spilling through the window felt too intrusive, too invasive, as if he were being watched. 

_ Love? _ Where had that come from? Not him, surely. He could not love her. He  _ could not. _

Loneliness, that had to be it, Aymeric decided as he burrowed into the duvet, away from the prying light of the moon. He missed those he already loved, be they gone or lost. He  _ could not _ love her, too.

It had only been attraction, infatuation,  _ idolatry _ , surely. He did not love Serella. Dispelling her from his mind was easy enough— and now,  _ vital _ to his preservation.

He was kicking off his sleep pants before he had even thought to do so, barely slipping his legs out before his hand was venturing down the soft skin of his torso, trembling and rushed. When he pressed the pad of his finger against his clit, it was done almost  _ angrily _ — how could he have let himself get this far gone? 

_ It cannot be love. Let it be anything else. Anything else— _

Aymeric squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenched in a grimace as he swirled his finger around the swollen bud. His hips stuttered at the stimulation but he refused to relent, doubling down on the frenetic pace of his fingers. Desperately, he tried to think of anyone, anyone at all, that was not the Paladin he had befriended. Anything to exorcise her from his mind.

Thinking on Estinien or Haurchefant should have been simple: he already loved them, and that love had been an immense comfort for so long, surely they would distract him. He tried to remember, to conjure Haurchefant's wide, warm grin, or Estinien's starspun hair slipping through his fingers.

And he did, but his mind was as split in focus as his heart, and before he could wrangle his imagination, there was an image— only ever one— of Estinien, only the curve of his smile visible as he made a path up to Serella's neck from the valley of her breasts. The dusky peaks of them were obscured by Haurchefant’s wide, warm hands gripping, stroking,  _ loving _ them in that enthused way he always loved, a toothy grin bitten into the side of her neck. Hair of ink was wrapped several times around Haurchefant’s fist, carefully guiding her head to turn to face Aymeric. She watched him, eyes dewy with the sheen of tears and open ache laid bare for him as she reached out to him, beckoning— 

_ Wouldn't it be nice, if you let yourself love me? _ Her low voice asked again.

It was shameful, how quickly he came. How easy it was to splinter into a thousand fractals from the barest thought of her reciprocating tha yearning ache that haunted him.

How that question had unmade him twice over.

The image of her had long since faded from his mind, but her voice rang in his ears, low and sweet and pressing down on his heart until it splintered beneath the crushing weight of it.

Would that it had been idolatry. Would that it had been fascination, or simple, petty lust. Would that he could even  _ pretend _ it were.

Aymeric slung an arm over his eyes in the trembling aftermath. They stung with tears, and he could not stand even the moon to see him in his defeat. His jaw ached from the pressure of clenching it in a desperate bid to smother the want to weep in frustration.

Would that it had been anything but love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so here's the ACTUAL last chapter, my sincere apologies. That's what happens when you hastily edit and post on your way out the door, it seems.
> 
> I hope that this sparks joy!


End file.
